Chapter 12

CHAPTER 12 The orange robe looked somehow right on Dan— like he was meant to wear it. "Can somebody take my picture?" He had his collection in mind. This would be the prized piece. He'd have it blown up to twenty feet wide. It would be an entire wall of his trophy room. "Photography forbidden." Dan was crushed. He opened his mouth to protest, then thought better of it. You didn't argue with a guy who could rip your arm out and beat you to death with the bloody end. "Can I at least keep the suit?" His sparring partners smiled tolerantly. The lesson began. Dan had envisioned himself flying through the air with the greatest of ease. But he was not surprised that it didn't happen that way. As a beginner, he started at the beginning

simple punches and kicks, and learning how to fall. It doesn't get any better than this, he reflected, slapping the mat in a break-fall. Learning kung fu— wushu— in a secret part of the Shaolin Temple in the very heart of Mount Song. Soon they progressed to basic throws. Dan glowed when the monks praised his balance. And thanks to his extraordinary memory, he was a quick study, with perfect recall of everything he'd been taught. The highlight of the hour was a sparring session— Dan versus four of the most dangerous fighters in the world. Oh, sure, he knew they were letting him win. But the feeling of throwing a kung fu master was indescribable— even if the guy was mostly throwing himself. All at once, Dan saw an opening. The monk in front of him was down, perfectly positioned for one of the holds Dan had just learned. This was it— a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity for a novice to star in real Shaolin competition. As Dan pounced, two powerful hands reached

up and grabbed the front of his robe. Suddenly, his opponent's foot was against his abdomen— not kicking, but launching Dan up and over him with astonishing force. Flying through the air, the triumphant thought flashed through his mind: I just got schooled by a Shaolin master! It never occurred to him that he was about to break every bone in his body. The other three caught him and set him gently down on the mat. He did a quick self-inventory— two arms, two legs, everything still attached. A colossal grin split his face. "That was mad awesome! How did you do that?" His teachers looked vaguely pleased. "This is the basis of all defense in wushu," the thrower explained. "The momentum of your adversary is your greatest ally." Another monk arrived with a tea service and a platter of food, and the sparring was adjourned. Dan bit down on a deep-fried snack and chewed thoughtfully, trying to place the unfamiliar flavor. Not bad, he decided. Crispy, kind of salty— a little like pork rinds, but the texture was different.

"What are these?" Dan asked, popping another piece into his mouth. "It is a delicacy made from the larva of the silkworm," came the reply. Dan nearly spit the morsel clear across the room. "We're eating worms?" "No. The silkworm is the caterpillar of the Bombyx mori— the silk moth." Like that was any better. Not worms, bugs. The effort to swallow required all the willpower he could muster. He knew he was imagining it, but he felt an entire insect zoo in his stomach, writhing and buzzing. He struggled to unsteady feet. "I think I need some air." One of the monks escorted him through the many twists and turns that led to the Chang Zhu courtyard. He murmured his thanks and staggered out onto the grounds. I'd never make it as a Shaolin monk. Great martial arts— but the meal plan! Tourists and visitors regarded him quizically— a Western boy in Shaolin robes. He was too

nauseated to be impressed by the sights, but just walking helped to settle his stomach. Jonah was nowhere to be seen. The star was probably still inside the temple, signing autographs for his Shaolin fans. Dan surveyed his surroundings. What was that? From a distance it looked like a miniature city. He drifted over and discovered that the structures were not buildings but towering brick-and-stone grave markers, shaped like Chinese pagodas, some of them thirty or forty feet tall. A sign declared that this burial ground was the Pagoda Forest— the final resting place for the cremated remains of centuries of Shaolin monks. Pretty cool— unless you're trying to digest a couple of Bombyx moris. Just outside the temple grounds, by the side of the road, he noticed a line of coin-operated telescopes trained up Mount Song. He left the Pagoda Forest and trudged along the path, fishing in his pocket for change. Another advantage of being part of the Wizard posse— Jonah had provided him with some Chinese

money. Exiting via a rear gate, he approached the line of telescopes. He squinted up at the mist-drenched summit of Mount Song. He could make out a distant monument, white against the gray sky. "What is it?" An attendant supplied the answer. "It is the statue of Bodhidharma." "You mean the eyelids dude?" Dan blurted. The man pointed to the money slot. "One yuan." Dan inserted a coin, and the telescope whirred to life with the ticking of a timer. He peered into the eyepiece. The statue was carved from white stone— a bearded monk sitting cross-legged atop a brick pedestal. As far as Dan could tell, there were no missing eyelids, and the figure's lower body, shriveled or not, was hidden by robes. But that wasn't what made Dan gasp. I know that guy! Where would a Boston orphan have seen a