The statue of Antigone shows her grieving over the body of her brother, Polynices. Her face is hardened with grief, and with something else: determination. The closed fist, held by her side, signals her intent to bury her brother with all the rites befitting a fallen prince of Thebes.
But, as portrayed in Sophocles’ play, Antigone’s commitment to honoring her brother means disobeying the orders of King Creon. Polynices is not the only casualty: he had led an army against his home city when his brother, Eteocles, broke a power-sharing agreement between them. Eteocles too is dead, but Creon decrees that only he will be honored, as a loyal son of Thebes; Polynices is a traitor.
Thus comes the conflict between Antigone, who rejects the notion that either brother is a traitor, and the whim of the state, in the form of Creon. Others beseech Antigone to go with the flow, including her sister, Ismene, and her fiancé, Creon’s son Haemon. But Antigone must remain true to her family and to her beliefs.
*
I became interested in Antigone in 2013 when the Hong Kong Writers Circle called for entries for an anthology of short stories that had to evoke a myth within the context of the city. I had already been thinking about what defined ancient civilizations.
I had a running theory that ancient Greece was not so different in its mores from ancient China, and that “the West” was a product of Christianity. I was inspired by the anthology’s gimmick to find Greek literature that could be easily retrofitted into some kind of Chinese or Hong Kong context.
My search taught me that my theory was wrong. The ancient Greeks had next to nothing in common with their contemporaries in far-off China. The Middle Kingdom might compare with other Asian empires; the Greeks really were sui generis, and the roots of the West lie in Athens as well as Jerusalem.
However, I did find in Sophocles’ “Antigone” a philosophical struggle that I thought related to Chinese concerns, that of the conflicting demands between family (filial piety) and the state. Confucius taught that obedience to one’s parents or ancestors must come before even the demands of an emperor (although he would argue that a house in good order would be in balance with political necessities). Antigone’s decision to defy Creon, knowing it probably meant her death, was a tragedy worthy of Confucius.
I set out therefore to re-tell Antigone as a modern tale set in Hong Kong, with Creon now a triad boss.
*
That was in 2013, the story went unremarked upon, and everyone moved on to other things. Fast forward to May, 2024. I am in my hometown of Doylestown, Pennsylvania, visiting the James A. Michener Museum of Art. Michener is a hero of mine, a greatly humane and cosmopolitan writer who was a massive best-seller and philanthropist in the 20th century. He is also from Doylestown so I have entertained the idea that I carry on, in a small way, what he embodies.
I am at the museum in part to meet George Anthonisen, the sculptor and another local son, and his wife Ellen. The museum is exhibiting a retrospection of Anthonisen’s lifetime oeuvre of bronzes. My mother is friends with the Anthonisen family (including their son Daniel, a wonderful painter) and they trek over to Michener to welcome us.
Before we meet the artist, I stroll through the sculpture garden and find his rendition of Antigone, with her stern face and clenched fist. It is a magnificent piece and it reminds me of my own connection to Sophocles’ timeless protagonist.
George relates that he initially imagined sculpting his Antigone with her fist raised. He came to her story in the wake of the killings of four students at Kent State, in 1970, a few weeks after my birth. The students had been protesting the Vietnam War and the Ohio state guard opened fire.
“They were killed by the state for protesting the war,” George told me. He turned to Antigone as someone who symbolized defiance of unchecked power. But while working on his bronze, he moved her fist down to her waist. It makes for a quieter scene, and therefore all the more powerful, and I think the pose befits Antigone. She was not, after all, out to overthrow the state; she was trying to uphold the social order. Hers is the defiance of a conservative fighting to preserve foundational principles.
So I am reclaiming my version of Antigone in this spirit, inspired by Sophocles and George Anthonisen both. My version takes place in a Hong Kong that now feels like a very long time ago, but the contemporary details aren’t what matter: this is an attempt, in 5,000 words, to explore a shared humanity. Our protagonist is named Vivian Wei.
VIVIAN WEI
Grief should have united them, but one sister, the eldest, felt only the mean comfort of rage. To Vivian anger was a palliative, a useful delay tactic. She knew that at some point she must allow a hollowing of her heart. But not at the price of becoming a pathetic, sobbing thing, bent over her bureau; not as her sibling – recently an adult, but still Vivian’s little sister – was now.
“You should cover that mirror,” Vivian said, scanning the wreck of a bedroom for a cloth or a sheet, and seeing only errant shoes and clothes, the usual clutter of a nineteen-year-old.
“Why?” replied Winnie from her broken posture. “There’s no funeral here.”
Seeing nothing suitable for the mirror, Vivian was about to back out, go find something, but remembered her main purpose.
She put her hand on Winnie’s back. “I…I know this is hard.”
“Vivi.” Winnie wrapped her arms around Vivian’s waist and whispered their brother’s name. “Chun-yuen.”
“And Chun-kit.”
Winnie looked up, her face a reddened mess. She noted that her sister’s expression was hardened with determination. Vivian’s cheeks and jaws were chiseled by something more than grief. It was unsettling. Winnie asked, “Are we cursed?”
“I don’t know.”
“We are. We must be. One brother, it can happen, but two? Two brothers?”
Vivian found the trap of her little sister’s embrace awkward. She recognized her impatience with her sister and tried to tame it. “All we can do is honor them with the rites they deserve.”
Vivian stroked her sister’s hair. Winnie’s damp of tears and snot seeped through Vivian’s blouse. Vivian distracted herself by scanning the bedlam of Winnie’s room for objects she could use. It took a long while before Winnie released her, made a limp effort to do something with her hair and gave up, and said, “You know Big Uncle won’t allow it.”
“You said it yourself: two brothers.”
Winnie collapsed on her bureau again, sending lipsticks skidding. “Leave me alone then. I’m tired and Chun-yuen’s funeral is tomorrow.”
“You want Chun-kit’s ghost to wander here forever, bringing bad luck to us? Winnie, we must make him an ancestor too. I’ve hired a monk. I’ve got joss sticks, a bottle of his favorite wine, and I’m looking for something that you can give him.”
Her younger sister looked up, really seeing her sister properly since Vivian had come into her bedroom. “For once, can you not try to be the boss?”
“He’s our eldest brother. The last of the Weis.”
“Oh God, just shut up!”
“So you’re not going to help me?”
“No, I’m not, and I wish you’d just…be my big sister because right now I really need you to love me.”
“I do love you,” Vivian said. She meant it, but it sounded rote, as if Winnie were an afterthought.
Winnie pushed her away. “You always make things worse.”
Vivian walked out, confident in her rage. Well, she had tried, but her younger sister wasn’t interested in dignity, she just wanted to be the weakling who left the hard work to someone else. A mutual resentment hushed their family’s Happy Valley penthouse, making the big rooms uncannily silent.
A different mood altogether reigned in the home of Big Uncle Kwok, who lived in a vast white manse on the Peak. There he had gathered the lieutenants and clan heads of the Ten Thousand Fists Society. Their sports cars and chauffeur-driven limousines spilled out from the gates, down the street toward the houses of business magnates, bankers, and diplomats, households that Kwok imagined were his peers.
Above, strips of white cloth covered the doors, red paper obscured the statues of Buddha and the Eight Immortals, and square-shaped mis-colorings on the walls revealed where the mirrors usually hung. The body of Wei Chun-yuen lay in his coffin dressed in a smart blue suit, a yellow cloth covering the face. A huge spread of candles, food and drink had been arranged at his feet, while above his head loomed his photograph, revealing his handsome liveliness, now irretrievably lost; beside the corpse paced a saffron-cloaked monk whose incantations were accompanied by the gongs incessantly clanged by his three robed companions.
In the basement, the mood among the group of older men was intensely serious, not somber. Gathered around a great table, they peered through the fug of cigarette smoke at the urn of jade, carved, so it was believed, in ancient Panyu before its absorption into the Han empire two thousand years ago. It was an irreplaceable treasure, and the hands of Master Chan, Big Uncle’s preferred feng-shui consultant and fortune-teller, trembled as he tipped it over. The mahjong tiles inside rained upon the marble tabletop, not a normal set but two-dozen tiles only, all drawn from the winds, signifying ayes, or the birds, for nays.
Master Chan banged the urn’s bottom as he set it down but all eyes were on those tiles. “Count them,” said Big Uncle Kwok, pushing his big square glasses up his nose. “Quickly.”
Master Chen separated winds and birds into separate piles, and it was immediately clear that the ayes more than doubled the number of nays. “We must still consult the almanac for a propitious day to announce––”
Kwok stood. “Enough. The Thousand Fists have cast their votes, and that’s the formality that counts on earth and under heaven. I am your Mountain Lord now.” He looked in the eyes of his lieutenants and heads of families, hard men who oversaw over 60,000 Hong Kong triads involved across legitimate empires of construction and real estate, as well as prostitution and protection rackets, drug trade and money laundering that spanned from Bangkok to San Francisco.
“You men have been loyal to the Fists,” Kwok said. “Your loyalty allowed our wealth and power to reach a zenith under Wei Ka-kan. When cursed Wei, husband to my poor sister, went mad, our Society faced many troubles, because there was no unity.” He banged the table. “Wei’s sons split into factions and Wei Chun-kit betrayed us all by collaborating with the police – because we lacked unity.” Bang! “Now Chun-kit’s deception has led to the death of Chun-yuen, the brother who remained loyal to the Fists, as well as his own. Loyalty to your Mountain Lord is the only way to see our Society through these chaotic times.
“Chun-yuen remained loyal to the Society and we honor him, at our home here, and at his grave. He is to become an ancestor, to the family that truly matters, the Fists. But Chun-kit, murderer, liar, a man without honor: his ghost is to enjoy no peace. No one must visit him at the morgue or burn incense or paper money in his memory. Let the undertaker cremate him without a single prayer. So long as I am Mountain Lord, never will a traitor be honored above the patriot. But whoever proves loyalty to the society, that man I will prize in death as well as life.”
“We understand and will obey,” said Pang Wing-tat, whom everyone called Goldie Pang, a Society Red Pole and overseer of their vast real-estate portfolio.
“We have enemies who would humiliate me and sow discord in our Society,” Kwok said. “They will dangle cash before your eyes. So hear this: anyone who disobeys my command and gives honor to the cursed spirit of Wei Chun-kit will suffer the ultimate punishment. They will be executed. Reflect on that, brothers.”
The meeting broke up soon after, the clan heads praising the wisdom of their new leader; any misgivings they had about the distasteful subject of mad Wei’s sons, they kept to themselves.
The next day marked the arrival of spring. A gentle rain dampened the verdant hillsides of the New Territories, where the Society kept a secluded private estate for their dead. A convoy of sleek black vans followed the hearse up through the valley, holy white paper taped to each windshield. Tree canopies covered their road all the way to the peak. From there, among the horseshoe-shaped ceramic graves, one would enjoy a fine view of Tolo Harbor, its mountains, islands and seas, were it not overcast.
The congregation of Society families, led by Big Uncle Kwok and including Goldie Pang, Master Chan, and Silent Bak, bodyguard to the Mountain Lord, carried the coffin up the last stretch of hill to the waiting grave, trailed by others carrying paper cut-outs of yachts, mansions, and a Maserati, soon to be burned. The Wei sisters, as expected of women in the time-warped world of the Thousand Fists, wore hoods of sackcloth over their heads, which at least kept off the drizzle. The congregation turned away to avoid the ill luck of watching the coffin lower into the ground; Big Uncle was the first to throw a handful of soil upon it. Then the group of wailers hired by Kwok began their long and loud anguished tributes.
Winnie sobbed throughout the ordeal, but Vivian barely registered any of the men or their words of condolence as she handed out red packets of money to everyone. She was too exhausted from last night’s furtive visit to the morgue to care. The wailers and the gongs – it was all too much. She missed Joseph but didn’t dare wish for the comfort of his arms.
When it was finally over, she got into one of the vans with Winnie. “I’m not sticking around for lunch,” she said. “I just want to sleep, if that’s okay with you.”
Winnie was unable to think or speak, and just clung to Vivian’s hand.
In the lead van, the Mountain Lord noticed one of the other vehicles peel off from the congregation. “There go the Wei sisters,” he said to Silent Bak.
Silent Bak said nothing, of course: a rival gang had cut his tongue out some years ago, an act he had avenged with murder many times over.
Big Uncle was also tired; it was mid-afternoon, and the funeral had taken several hours. He and the senior brothers returned to his mansion on the Peak, where the staff had laid out a meal in the kitchen, removed from the chanting and gong-clanging that continued at the deceased’s alter in the foyer. Big Uncle was joined by Master Chan and Goldie Pang, while Bak loomed in the background, keeping an eye on the stream of brothers who continued to drop by to pay their respects.
As Big Uncle was enjoying his first taste of crispy fried pork, a brother burst into the kitchen. Bak collared him with a hand, and the man dropped to his knees and bowed to Big Uncle, clasping fist into palm.
“What is it?” growled Kwok.
“Big brother, I…it wasn’t my fault.”
“Out with it.”
“Big brother, someone has given a funeral to Wei Chun-kit.”
Kwok dropped his chopsticks. “What? That can’t be. Are you sure?”
“I’m sure, sir. I just came from the morgue. There’s a monk there, and flowers, and they’ve burned incense…and…”
“But who would do such a thing, knowing the consequences?”
The brother trembled. “I don’t know who did it. I’m sorry.”
“Sorry? Aren’t you supposed to be on guard there?”
“Yes, big brother.”
Kwok pinned the man’s head in the crook of his arm, face turned upward, and stuffed a chopstick down one nostril. “Listen to me, you sniveling bastard. If you don’t find out who did this thing before the sun goes down, I’ll have you ground into pieces and fed to the fucking fish.”
“He’s a sworn brother,” Master Chan protested.
“There are plotters, Master Chan,” Kwok said. “We can never relax our vigilance against those who’d accept the cash of our enemies. The price of failure is chaos. Do you want to see a return to the days when sons of Mountain Lords betrayed and slew one another? Pah.” Kwok released the man and threw the chopstick after him. “Sundown, mark my words.”The man massaged his nose, blood snaking down his wrist. “Yes, big brother…I…I’ll find out who did this.” He exited backwards, bowing.
Kwok chewed his food viciously. He looked at his companions, but they only pretended to stare at their food. But even rice failed to ease the wobbles in his stomach. He spent much of the day prowling the grounds of his mansion, unable to rest with that unending clanging and chanting. The monks taunted him with the reminder that somewhere, someone had given face to the traitor, defying Big Uncle’s authority. Goldie opened a laptop full of numbers, but all Kwok’s senses could process were gongs. Master Chan suggested mahjong, but Kwok said this was no time for games.
Goldie suggested Kwok needed to relax so they retired to his study, the furthest point from the corpse, and it was there, lighting a Cohiba, that Kwok was again visited by the brother meant to be guarding the traitor’s ashes.
“Big brother! I’ve found the culprit.”
Behind the kneeling man came Silent Bak and two more brothers, each holding the arm of a young woman. Goldie and Master Chan gasped.
“Vivian Wei,” Uncle Kwok said. “What are these fools doing with her?”
Bak pushed Vivian Wei forward. She was not resisting; there was no need. She had nothing to hide.
“You mean to tell us,” Goldie Pang said to the brother, “that you saw this woman at the morgue?”
“Yes, I did, twenty minutes ago,” said the brother. “The monk was gone but she was there, ready to collect the ashes. She had already paid a worker to crush the bones.”
“Is this true?” Kwok said to her. “You’ve honored the corpse of Wei Chun-kit?”
“I have,” said Vivian. “His spirit will find at least a little peace.”
“And did you not hear of my decree, made known throughout the entire Society, of the fate of anyone doing so?”
“How could I not? You’ve broadcast it loud and clear, Big Uncle.”
“And you still had the gall to break my law?”
“Your law,” she sneered. “I answer to a higher law, a natural law. Chun-kit was my eldest brother. He was the head of our family. How can I not honor him as an ancestor, if there is to be any hope for all of our line?”
Kwok reddened. “But the penalty for this is death!”
“I know it. Life is a misery. I’ve been dead already. But to let my mother’s son rot, to see his ghost wander this earth in unending torment, that I could not bear.”
“Like father, like daughter,” murmured Goldie Pang. “Stubborn.”
Kwok paced around her, slowly, his voice taking on an edge. “Stubborn? Oh, she’ll learn. Even the toughest soldier has his breaking point, let alone a mere woman who is full of nothing but stupid pride. Look at her now, brothers, mocking us. No, she cannot evade my law and make fools of our Society. Not you, Vivian – and not that sister of yours. Where’s she hiding?”
“Leave Winnie out of it,” Vivian snapped, annoyed that they’d even suspect her supine sister of defiance. “She had nothing to do with this. If you want to kill me for disobeying your stupid rules, then go ahead and get it over with. I can see from the eyes of your brothers that they sympathize with what I’ve done, but they’re too scared to say a word in my defense.”
Kwok snorted. “No brother in our Society sees things your way. They see only your shame and are embarrassed into silence.”
“Shame?” Vivian said, holding back a laugh. “I’m not ashamed, Kwok. I have honored my ancestors and given them peace. What more can a sister do?”
“You are also sister to Chun-yuen, killed by the police thanks to Chun-kit’s betrayal. What of his memory?”
“Chun-yuen is my brother, yes, by the same mother, the same father.”
“Then how can you render honors unto Chun-yuen’s enemy?”
“Chun-yuen is dead and buried,” Vivian said. “You don’t know what he’d say about this. You have no idea. They were brothers before they were enemies.”
“But one chose treason, the other patriotism.”
“Maybe so,” said Vivian, “but Death treats all men equally, and demands the same rites.”
“Never,” spat Kwok. “Once an enemy, always an enemy, even in death.”
Vivian shrugged. “I guess I was taught to love, not to hate.”
“Then go love your brother in hell. I’m not going to be humiliated by a woman.”
Another pair of brothers arrived, hauling Winnie along. She wore sunglasses to hide her red, puffy eyes.
“Get your hands off me, jerk.” That made Vivian smile despite herself: Winnie had a little vinegar after all.
“So, we have the both of you,” Kwok said, “scheming and plotting to embarrass me and defy the law of this Society. Conspiring to unseat me as Mountain Lord, no doubt, in some insane bid to restore the Wei family to its former glory. Pathetic.”
“That’s right, old man,” Winnie said. “I’m just as guilty as Vivian.”
“No,” Vivian protested. “She had nothing to do with it, I told you, Kwok. It was my doing alone.”
Winnie took Vivian’s hand. “I followed you, big sis, just now, down to the morgue. When they took you away, they kicked and smashed everything you had left. I picked up your joss sticks and relit them. You were right all along.”
Vivian was shocked. She touched Winnie’s face, not so much to give comfort as to confirm this conversation was really happening. “Silly Winnie. You don’t know what you’re saying. You’re the last of our line. Don’t make an enemy of Big Uncle.”
“Please.” Winnie fell to Kwok’s feet. “She didn’t mean it.”
“Yes I did,” Vivian cried. “Winnie, last night you chose one path and I chose another. That’s the way it has to be.”
“Look at these two,” Kwok said, bellowing a laugh. “They’re both mad, crazy as the old man. Well, Winnie, you’re wasting your breath. Your sister’s right about one thing: she’s dead already.”
“What?” Winnie gasped. “Joseph would never let you––”
“My son is not your concern.”
“They’re in love!”
“Winnie, don’t,” Vivan said softly.
Kwok smirked. “There are always other fields to plow.”
“They’re engaged! They’ve got a wedding date!”
Kwok looked disgusted. “I’d never let my son marry such a worthless woman, not after what she’s done. I’ll spare your life, Winnie, as a gesture of my compassion; you’ve got twenty-four hours to leave Hong Kong and never come back.” He motioned to the two men, sworn triad blood brothers, who grabbed Winnie by the arms. She struggled as they dragged her out of the room, her sunglasses getting knocked onto the carpet. Bak remained behind Vivian, his hand firmly on her shoulder. Vivian did not resist.
“Keep her downstairs for now,” Kwok said, dismissing her, but Vivian lingered for a long moment, her eyes pinned on Kwok, before she let Bak take her away. The Mountain Lord later found his thoughts disturbed by that final exchange, and the surety of her gaze.
Meanwhile Joseph Kwok was oblivious to all of this. His chartered jet touched down that evening and a company limousine was waiting to whisk him home. Joseph, thanks to his Harvard Business School MBA, was running the more legitimate parts of the Fist’s empire, and he was eager to report on his successes in Melbourne. Reclining in the back seat, Joseph’s BlackBerry and iPhone buzzed simultaneously. Winnie’s image illuminated the iPhone screen.
He tried to express his condolences, but she cut him off. “Your father’s going to kill Vivi,” she said, unspooling her tale. Joseph tried to listen, he knew he must listen, that he must feel terror and outrage, but that fist of ice, the one he had known all his life, clenched his chest and froze his senses. After she hung up, he sought refuge in his gadgets, hoping he could immerse himself in business e-mails, at least until he could figure out what was going on. But his inbox was flooded with alarming messages from other Fists, obsessing over the same thing. The journey home seemed to take forever.
He found his father in the living room, poking the smoldering logs in the fireplace. Kwok said, “So you’ve heard the final verdict on your bride. Do you come to me full of rage, raving against your old man? Or do you love me, no matter what I do?”
Joseph kept his tone neutral. “I’m your son, father. I’ve always followed you.”
Kwok nodded and walked to the wet bar. “I’m glad to hear it. A man prays all his life for a good son, a dutiful boy who will one day have sons of his own. Scotch?”
“All right.”
Kwok poured them a 24-year aged Macallan over ice cubes. Handing a tumbler to his son, he said, “But the man who rears spoiled brats doesn’t do the world any favors. Joseph, never lose your head over a woman. Sure, they can make you feel like a changed man, but trust me, the beauty of one is quickly forgotten in the beauty of the next. Here, let’s toast: to loyalty.”
They clinked glasses and sipped. His father seemed at pains to explain himself. “You know what the law is, and she broke it, in front of the entire family. What will our enemies think, if they see I can’t enforce a single rule within my own household? The Society has placed authority in me, and I won’t tolerate anarchy.”
“I see, father.”
“Never, my boy, let a woman try to score one over you. Better to fall from power, if we must, at the hands of a man, than be humiliated by a woman.”
Joseph took a breath, feeling his lungs struggle against the fist of ice, and considered his next words. “I know I’m young and still have a lot to learn. But I’ve been in touch with many of our people since I landed. I need to tell you, father, that maybe no one would say this to your face, but they’re sympathetic to Vivian.”
“Let them talk. If they act, I’ll get rid of them too.”
“I’m your son and I cherish every success of yours. But are you going to hold this Society together by being so rigid?” He was talking fast now. “Remember, the bamboo that bends is stronger than the oak which resists.”
Kwok set his drink down. “Oh, so now I’m to be lectured by a twenty-five-year-old?”
“I know I’m inexperienced, but I also know that the Mountain Lords have always been open to advice.”
“Advice!” Kwok made a face. “Advice. Is that what you call accepting treason?”
“No one seems to share your belief that Vivian’s a traitor.”
“Oh, really? And I’m to lead the Thousand Fists based on half-baked rumors instead of my own principles?” He shoved a finger in Joseph’s face. “I’ve got news for you, boy: I am the Society. Its authority is manifested in me, and I’m telling you, you’re not marrying that woman.”
“I will marry her,” Joseph said, puffing his chest, to fool himself of his readiness to challenge his father.
Faces inches apart. “Then you’ll be marrying a ghost!”
No turning back: “If you weren’t my father, I’d say you were insane!”
Kwok slapped him; tumblers slipped and droplets of whiskey stained the white leather couch. Joseph stumbled back and he knew that his courage had been a sham, but he also saw his father as a dinosaur, a throwback to dynasties long-since crumbled. “You shouldn’t have done that.”
“The next hit, you won’t be getting back up.”
“I’m leaving.”
“You’ll come running back as soon as your money runs out.”
“I’ve learned a thing or two about money, father. You won’t know what’s gone missing till it’s too late.”
“And you,” Kwok seethed, “won’t see the bullet, the one I’m going to stamp myself with your name.”
Big Uncle took dark satisfaction in watching Joseph bolt from the house. The engine roar from the young man’s Ferrari’s engine was not that of a lion but of a coward and it attenuated to a mosquito’s whine. Joseph would be back with his tail tucked between his spindly legs. Then Kwok summoned Silent Bak and told him to take ‘the problem’ out to sea in the speedboat after midnight, and make sure she sank like a stone.
Minutes later his phone rattled: Master Chan was calling. “What do you want?”
“Have my fortunes always guided you well, Big Uncle?”
“Yes, Master Chan. You have always advised me well.”
“Come down to Wong Tai Sin and consult the divining sticks. I know the burden of authority weighs heavily on you tonight.”
“I don’t need to consult anything, Master Chan. My mind’s made up.”
“Please, Big Uncle – you just said you value my advice.”
Big Uncle was going to hang up there and then, but the idea of roaming the big house alone with his son’s harsh words displeased him. “Oh all right.” He instructed his driver to take him to the temple of Wong Tai Sin, in Kowloon. It was closed to the public at this hour, but the Thousand Fists’ charitable donations ensured private audiences at the oracle. Master Chan was there, dressed as a Daoist sage, along with Goldie Pang, who held a basket of one hundred divination sticks.
“You look ridiculous,” Big Uncle said to the master. He made an offering of incense before taking the basket and kneeling before the altar of Lord Guan. “Guide me in the law,” he intoned, rattling the basket of bamboo sticks until one popped out. He handed it to Master Chan.
“Number sixty-three,” Master Chan said, and then he intoned the related poem:
Last time we sailed we lost our compass;
Today we set forth to search for it again.
Though the first compass was later found,
It is no use now and all hope is drowned.
“Mumbo-jumbo,” Kwok complained. He had rather hoped for something a little more uplifting.
“You are on the razor’s edge of fate,” Master Chan told him. “Your passions have led you astray, but you still have time. You must use your compass, your moral compass, to find the right path – the way of the Dao.”
“You too, Chan?” Kwok raged. “Have you been pocketing someone’s cash, to make me a fool? You make me sick.”
“You’re the one who is sick, Big Uncle. How dare you call my fortunes a lie?”
“You’re nothing but a feng-shui charlatan! Unlike you, my resolve is not for sale.”
“Do you know the sixty-third hexagram of the I Ching? It is ‘Already done’ – good fortune to begin with, chaos at the end. I’m telling you, Mountain Lord, this business with the dead is going to destroy us all – you, me, the Thousand Fists. Do you want Chun-kit’s ghost to haunt us forever, because you violated the laws of filial piety? Accusing me of taking bribes – you’ll deserve your fate.” With that, Master Chan stalked off.
Goldie Pang said, “Do you really want to risk a total rupture in the Society over this girl and her dead brother?”
Kwok was shaken now. First his son, now the Master; and he still couldn’t get the memory of Vivian Wei’s cold stare out of his head. “To go back on my own principles. And yet, Goldie…”
“Will you listen to an old friend’s advice?”
Kwok’s shoulders sagged. “All right. Tell me.”
“Call it off with the girl. Tomorrow, go back to the morgue and burn some joss for Chun-kit.”
“Give in, you mean.”
“Better to give in and preserve the Fists than be cursed.”
Kwok drew his mobile and rang Silent Bak. But there was no response. “He’s not picking up,” Kwok said, starting to panic. “If he’s not answering…”
“He’s out of range – he’s already out of Hong Kong waters.”
“Get my helicopter ready, Goldie, we’ve got to hurry!”
They were not the only ones chasing down Silent Bak and his prisoners. Several of the younger clansmen friendly to Joseph Kwok had revealed Silent Bak’s whereabouts: the killer was sailing one of Kwok’s fishing boats, taking a deep-sea cruise. Joseph could track the boat via GPS on his iPhone: a little star twinkling on his screen.
Beneath a canopy of real stars, far from any sign of human life, surrounded by darkness, the tongueless killer cut the engines. The constant crashing through the waves suddenly turned to quiet. Vivian, sore and bruised, her hands tied behind her back, thought the gentle lapping of the ocean waters against the boat sounded like sighs.
Silent Bak remained hunched over the scanner, squinting out the windows.
Vivian crouched in the exposed cabin in the rear, gazing out at blackness. There was no light in any direction except up: she hadn’t seen stars in – years? Shouldn’t that be a crime, going without seeing the heavens for so long? The stars were splendid, but cold and distant. She wondered if her brothers were among them. Soon she would find out.
Vivian remembered what her sister told her, about being the crazy bossy one. No glamorous clubs or playboys for her. Just her Joseph, whose sad aloofness had found comfort in her purposeful ways. But it had been too late for them. Had they already been married, with a child of their own, she would have never defied Kwok and the law of the Society. That was a bitter fruit to devour, but she swallowed it all the same, knowing at least that Joseph would understand what Vivian had done, and maybe envy her.
She levelled her gaze at Silent Bak. “I know you’re going to throw me overboard. But if you and Big Uncle are wrong, and the old laws are still true, you’ll suffer, all of you, the same as me.”
She didn’t expect an answer, and she didn’t get one. Even the stars went out, one by one, as the cloud returned. Vivian sat on that rolling boat and waited in darkness for time to run down the drain. Eventually Silent Bak stood and moved to her. She kicked but he grabbed her ankle and twisted it till the pain made her quit. A single star had emerged: she saw it as he grabbed her hair and forced her toward the edge of the boat. The star sliced through the sky, growing larger. There was another star, bright, bobbing along the horizon. Silent Bak paused with her poised above the water, unsure of what to do.
The light on the horizon was close now, and a searchlight pierced the void, slipping and sliding among the waves. A loudspeaker called out: “Bak! Stop!”
Bak respected only the orders of one man. He pulled out a knife and stuck in into Vivian’s side. She didn’t understand what was happening until he withdrew the blade. Her hot blood sluiced out of her, and she went cold, as cold as the tumbling waves. “Oh,” was all she said, as Bak pushed her into the water.
Big Uncle and Goldie Pang watched her die from the open side of the helicopter, Kwok’s No, no, no lost in the gale. Only then did he notice the yacht that had pulled alongside the fishing boat and saw Joseph there, crumpled in a little ball. As the chopper approached, the son noticed the father. Even from there, as Joseph raised a pistol and took aim, Kwok could see the hatred on his face. Yellow flashes; bullets pinged on the chopper’s belly. “Let him take me,” Kwok mumbled, spreading his arms. The bullets ceased, however. Joseph doubled up and tumbled into the deep.
On the fishing boat stood the ever loyal Silent Bak, gun in hand.
Goldie Pang was the one who restrained him from leaping into the sea. “Let me die!” Kwok bawled as Goldie and two brothers pinned him to the floor.
“We need you!” Goldie shouted. “You are the Mountain Lord!”
