Chapter Twelve
“Have a nice run?” Mike asked. He had moved to the couch, a book dangling from his hand. Peter just nodded, not yet trusting his tongue around Mike.
“Good.” He paused. “Ya still mad?”
“No. Confused, frustrated, hurt . . . but not angry.”
Mike nodded slowly. Softly, he said, “I meant it.”
“I know you did. We haven’t been friends all this time without me being able to tell when you’re serious.” The words carried as bitter an edge as Peter could put into them. Mike had to look away. He couldn’t bear the weight of those words.
“And I’ve decided . . . not to talk you out of it. If this is your way, then I’m not going to browbeat you.”
That startled Mike into looking at Peter. “ . . . yeah?”
Peter nodded, shrugging. “If you don’t want to talk about it, then I won’t mention it anymore. From now on you can be just plain old Mike Nesmith the Monkee. Or were you planning on giving that up too?”
Speechless, Mike shook his head.
“Good. At least we’ll still have a lead guitarist.” Putting the image of Liang in his mind, Peter managed a genuine smile. Mike returned it, shakily.
After what seemed like forever, Micky returned with Mister Liang. The aged gentleman looked around with kind eyes.
Peter stood and bowed respectfully. Mike started to stand, then sank back into his chair, his gaze dropping to the floor.
Liang looked at him. “The other one . . . is where?”
“In the bedroom,” Peter said, gesturing with his head for Micky to go.
Liang looked at Peter. “You go also.” Peter nodded and followed Micky to the downstairs bedroom.
Liang sat on the couch with a groan. “The Tiger needs to find his voice,” he said. “And you?”
“I’m out,” Mike said. Some of the surety had left his voice. “There are three Winds now.”
“Why leave?” The old man’s voice was full of nothing but curiosity.
“Because we weren’t meant to be!” The old venom had returned. He turned, yanking his unruly hair aside. “This was a mistake!” Just as quickly as it had appeared, the anger subsided, leaving Mike looking very tired. “It’s brought us nothing but pain.”
“No mistake.” Liang’s voice was serene. “Life brings pain. You are the Four Winds.”
As Peter, Micky, and Davy peeped out the door, drawn by Mike’s harsh words, Mike stood up. “Why? Why would four constantly out-of-work musicians who only know Chinese from fortune cookie wrappers and badly dubbed kung fu movies be chosen for this? What made us so damn special?”
Liang looked up at him. “If you not the Winds—tea do nothing. No tattoos. No abilities. Nothing but get sleepy.”
Mike stopped. “What?”
“Tea not cause tattoos. Or abilities. If you four not Four Winds.”
Peter exchanged an open-mouthed look with Davy, whose gaze seemed to be turned inwards, as if he were lost in thought.
Liang locked eyes with Mike. “I not choose you. You chose you. Tea chose you.”
Mike sank back down into his chair, his hand going up to his neck. “How . . . how do we know you’re tellin’ the truth?”
“He wouldn’t lie,” Davy said quietly.
“So . . . what now?” Mike said, his voice growing quieter by the second.
Liang’s voice was equally soft, but carried. “You heal.”
“How?” Davy asked. “He . . . hurt more than our bodies.”
“You think only bodies strong? Minds strong too. Bodies heal—now time minds heal too.”
“How?” Mike asked quietly. His hands were shaking.
Liang stood up, placing a gentle hand on Mike’s head and turning it until Mike could see his friends. “That how you heal.”
“My . . . friends?”
“No run from them. Mind say run, hide. Never be hurt. Not think what it lose in bargain.”
“But they’re safer— I’m safer.” Tears were in his eyes.
“No safe! You think danger go away just ‘cause you say you ‘out’? You think danger leave you ‘lone just ‘cause you say you not Wind?”
“Yes!” Mike was all but shouting now. “Yes!”
“No!” The shout, almost an octave deeper than Liang’s usual quiet tone, startled Mike into silence. “Danger come no matter what! If you hide under bed only make it easy to stab with sword!”
Mike’s eyes strayed without conscious control to the katana. “Sword . . . ”
“Four Winds must be group. Separate, you fall. Together, you weather all storm. Come out alive on other side. I not say you never get hurt—life is danger. Life is suffering.” The hand on Mike’s shoulder gave a firm squeeze. “Not suffer for nothing.”
“Mister Liang,” Mike whispered, and the next words showed the other three how badly Dragonman had hurt him. “It hurts so much . . . ”
That, and the fact he looked ready to cry again.
“Dragonman not take nothing from you that you not willing to give.”
“Wh . . . what?” Mike looked incredulously at him.
“Body hurt. Heal. Mind still hurt—still under his power. He put doubt in head, doubt keeping you in fear and confusion.”
Mike looked at Davy. “When he said we were pretenders . . . ”
“He was trying to get to us,” Davy said. “He was planting doubts in our heads . . . he wanted us to believe it!”
“And we did,” Mike whispered.
“No have to no more. Believe what he tell you . . . mean he win.”
Mike looked at the old man. “It won’t be easy . . . ”
“Has being a Wind ever been easy, Mike?” Peter said finally.
“No.” He sighed and his head lowered slightly. “But it’s never quite been this hard before, either.”
“Ai-ya,” Liang murmured. He smacked Mike’s forehead gently. “Why you think you have friends? Carry burden ‘cross eight shoulders, not two.”
Peter smiled. “And we’ve got some broad ones.”
Mike nodded. “Where do I—where do we—begin?”
Liang leaned back on his cane, gazing at them for some time before he said “Begin by having dinner. You come to my restaurant.”
Davy and Mike both stiffened—and visibly forced themselves to relax.
“Walk down street, eat, come home. Begin life again.” Liang stumped his way to the door. “You not be late. I expect you seven clock.” With that he left, leaving four semi-confused Winds behind.
~~~~~
Being in the restaurant again was a trying experience. Both Mike and Davy jumped at every noise, and when a waiter dropped a tray of dishes Mike leaped out of his chair and took up a fighting stance. Peter and Micky exchanged hopeful looks—the pair were both fighting to calm their reactions, and seeing Mike ready to fight instead of under the table was an encouraging sign.
Davy was visibly trembling. He excused himself and went to the restroom—careful not to enter a narrow stall as he washed his face.
The other three resisted the urge to go after him, sitting nervously until Davy emerged, still a little off-color but moving steadier.
He sat down with a tight smile and picked up his chopsticks.
They trembled.
With a visible effort his hand steadied. Micky grinned.
Peter smiled at Mike. “You’re doing well.”
“I’m tryin’.” Mike took another mouthful of sweet and sour chicken. “I think . . . that’s what Liang was tryin’ t’say. That we gotta try.”
Davy nodded as he swallowed his pepper steak. “Maybe . . . maybe in the trying is our strength? Where we’re our best?”
Not knowing exactly why, Peter raised his cup. “To trying.”
Mike stared for a moment, then raised his cup. “To trying.”
Micky and Davy joined them, toasting silently. Four cups clinked with a satisfying sound that spoke of new beginnings, of moving on. And standing in the doorway watching them, Liang permitted himself a satisfied smile.
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