Yi Pin

During the Chinese Civil War, at the age of fifteen, my grandfather joined the Chinese military. Fighting between the Kuomintang (KMT) and the Chinese Communist Party (CCP) had reached the northern area where his family’s farmlands were located, killing a number of the townsfolk as well as rendering the land untenable. In an attempt to keep what little food the family had left in the mouths of their brothers and sisters, my grandfather and his best friend, Nieh Kai Guo—someone that my grandfather called his closest family—traveled south to a military academy that housed, educated, and trained anyone willing to fight for the KMT. They joined in 1931, four years since the fighting began.

     By the time my grandfather and Nieh graduated from their preliminary education and were about to begin full-time military training—a position that risked deployment if the KMT deemed it necessary—the war (Known as the Ten-Year Civil War) was in its seventh year and all their upperclassmen had been deployed to fight against the communist insurgency and the south wing of their school had been repurposed as a medical ward.

     Outside of the military base where my grandfather trained, there was a large field of grass that stood facing the entrance to the school. Most of the passersby who saw it back in 1934 would think nothing of the barren land upon which the would-be soldiers performed drills, practiced their marksmanship, and engaged in recreational activities. However, for the nearby townsfolk and the military academy, there was another reason that grass went untouched.

     It would always be on the fourth day of the month. A day that many Chinese people found unlucky due to the fact that the number four was homophonous with the word for death. On that day, the wind would carry a tune of caution and the trees bowed away from that field as if in deference or fear. There was a cold bite to the air—even in the summers—that cut through your body and the sky was always overcast, bearing an ominous quality over the land.

     On the fourth day of every month, a being would appear in that field. Each time this being appeared, they would look different; old, young, man, woman, dark-skinned, light-skinned. Each form they took was starkly different from the last, with their only constant feature being the smirk of mischief on its face as the being sat in that field. They would appear with the rising sun and sit in the center of that field until the sun rose again the next morning. Rain, snow, or sunshine, the being would sit with a pipe in one hand and a wooden game board in front of it. The game was always the same. In China it is known as Wei Qi, in America we call it Go.

     The game is played on a simple 19x19 grid. Two players alternate turns in which they place black and white pieces, known as stones, onto the board at any of the grid’s points of intersection. The objective of the game is to use your set of stones to occupy more of the board than your opponent. A stone or group of stones that has been completely surrounded by the opposing player’s stones is marked as captured and removed from the board, that territory then goes to the player that still occupies that space. The players place stones until they reach a point where neither player wishes to make another move, or another move cannot be made. The game has no other set end condition. At the end of the game, the territory is counted up along with the number of captured stones and a “Komi” (points given to the player who is using the white stones as compensation for playing second) and a winner is named.

     Most people played Wei Qi on paper boards or discarded wood; however, this being’s game board was an expertly crafted eight-inch-thick piece of high quality, solid dawn redwood. It had a glow to it that made the board look surreal and magnificent as if it were somehow always covered in the glow of the morning sun. Instead of two bowls, one with black stones and the other with white, there was one bowl, filled with a seemingly endless supply of only one type of stone. At first glance, these pieces seemed like simple glass that had been tempered in flames until they retained a grey hue. However—as one began to play—they would find that each stone held a memory, visions of the past, of mankind’s struggles, of their proclivity for war.

     Only one color meant that this game of Wei Qi had a unique rule built into it. As one played, they would have to remember which stones were their own. If a player mistakenly removed a piece from the game because they incorrectly mistook a stone for their own, the board would magically be reset to before that move was made and the turn would end. Lastly, before they were allowed to reach into the bowl for a stone, the being would ask his challenger a question and the challenger would have to reply before they placed their stone. There was seemingly no consequence for how these questions were answered, but an answer was mandatory, or else the being would clear the board and end the game. Many times, a challenger would think themselves clever and ask a question of the being, but the being would simply smile and play, never revealing an answer.

     During their twenty-four hour stay in the grassy field across from my grandfather’s military academy, the being would accept any and all challengers. However, no matter what, as the sun rose on the next day, the being and his board would disappear. This meant that, if you were still playing as the sun rose, the territory would be counted up and the winner would be decided in that moment.

     If you succeeded in winning, the being would grant you one wish. If you lost, they would send you on your way with no discernable consequence. Though, many of the losers were reported by the townsfolk to either have died gruesome, unexplained deaths or fall upon great misfortune. However, many of the townsfolk told stories of one man, decades ago, who tied with the being and was given two options: either it would grant three wishes or it would answer one question, any question.

     The being was a mystery. Some called them a god, others believed them a demon, and still others thought the being was the unrested soul of Xiao Yan, better known as Emperor Wu of Liang, the best Wei Qi player in China during the Southern Liang Dynasty. No matter what the being truly was, the townsfolk gave them the title of “Yi Pin”. Historically, this title was given to the top ranked Wei Qi player in the country and, in all its years playing in that grassy field, only a handful had achieved victory against them. The losers were so vast and well-known that, by the time my grandfather began attending the military academy, the rumor was that no mortal man could beat Yi Pin and that the wishes they supposedly granted were only a false lure so that the being could take the souls of those they defeated. Many in the town warned the curious to stay away from that field if they aimed to keep their lives, but this never seemed to deter people from seeking out Yi Pin. Every month, my grandfather and his fellow trainees would see and hear the crowd from their classroom.

     The crowd itself ranged from homeless, who wanted a better life, to experienced players who had traveled to the town in hopes of testing their mettle against the legendary opponent. Even though many of the students at the academy would go to watch the games, in the first two years of my grandfather’s military training, not one student had challenged Yi Pin.

     The first student who did was one of my grandfather’s classmates. Somewhat of a slacker, the boy lacked sufficient marks to continue schooling and was being reviewed by the headmaster for expulsion. Afraid of returning home in disgrace, the classmate marched out, half-cocked and slightly drunk, to the field and stood in line to wait his turn. Upon seeing him enter the line, Yi Pin immediately defeated their current opponent and then called the boy over.

     “What is it that you seek?” Yi Pin asked behind their trademark devious smile.

     “Honor,” the boy said, reckless and confident. Apparently, a fellow student told my grandfather later on, this slacker had studied Wei Qi at his family home and was the best player in his town.

     Yi Pin’s smile widened and they invited the boy to sit, “I shall play you now. It has been a long time since I’ve seen such confidence.” My grandfather noted that no one waiting in line complained as the boy was granted the next game, the air was so tense and the players watched with unblinking focus, hoping to find a weakness.

     The boy conceded in six moves. “One move for every month you spent slacking at school,” Yi Pin said with a smile. The boy was expelled two days later, but he had opened the door for my grandfather’s classmates. It was as if they had all been waiting for someone to go first. The next month, when Yi Pin appeared in that grassy field, ten boys, all students from the military school, lined up to challenge the being. My grandfather watched each game. Every challenger lost that day and, that month, those ten boys were watched closely by their classmates. Most of them were called to the war and died in battle, others did not find themselves any worse off than they had been before, but one boy—the one that had lost quickest of the ten—lost both his legs in battle, blown off by a hand grenade, and returned home haunted by what he experienced.

     My grandfather thought that these stories of death and injury would stop his peers from challenging Yi Pin, but nothing deterred them. The next time Yi Pin appeared, the number of student challengers had doubled. It was now a competition among them, who could last the longest? Within their ranks this time was Nieh. My grandfather had objected greatly to his friend’s decision to challenge Yi Pin, but Nieh had just received news that his mother had fallen ill and the war had cut the village off from its nearest hospital.

     When it came time for Nieh’s turn, Yi Pin smiled. “What is it that you seek?”

     “The recovery of my mother’s health,” Nieh spoke with clear determination.

     “Excellent,” Yi Pin replied.

     Nieh survived an hour before the stones were counted and he was declared the loser. Yi Pin maintained their smile, but commended the boy. “A valiant effort child,” the being said before the next challenger sat down and Nieh returned to the barracks, silent and downcast. The very next day he received a letter from his father saying his mother had passed a week after the first letter had been sent. Nieh did not have the money to return home and thus mourned by engrossing himself in his school work and training. He did not stop even as the snows began to fall and, by the end of the month, he had fallen ill with a severe case of pneumonia and was sent to the hospital a week before Yi Pin would return for his monthly visit. So—in those seven days—my grandfather plotted Yi Pin’s defeat.

     On the day Yi Pin appeared, my grandfather stood waiting, watching each and every game that was played. As the day came to a close and the last challenger concede, my grandfather realized something. Yi Pin never played first. The stones may have been grey, but Yi Pin had always played white; reserved and playful, waiting for the perfect moment to strike. Eventually, my grandfather sat down and Yi Pin asked, “What is it that you seek?”

     “You will know once I have defeated you,” my grandfather said sternly. Yi Pin nodded his head and, with a wave of his hand, he signaled for my grandfather to start the game. “No,” my grandfather said, “I will play second.”

     Yi Pin’s eyes lit up with excitement. In all his time sitting at the center of that field, seldom had anyone insisted on playing second and Yi Pin immediately took a liking to anyone who did. They placed the first stone in charged anticipation.

     “Where are you from?” Yi Pin asked.

     “A small village in the north,” my grandfather said as he placed his stone. Yi Pin looked down and the grin spread across his face, wider this time. He played his next move quickly.

     “Who taught you how to play this game?”

     “I have never played this game before,” my grandfather answered. He placed his second stone down onto the board and, as he did this, the clouds in the sky broke and the rising sun showed itself to the two players. My grandfather closed his eyes and breathed relief before he looked at Yi Pin again. “It looks like we are out of time.”

     Yi Pin studied my grandfather’s face for a moment,  then he started to laugh. “Indeed, we are,” the being said, taking a puff from their pipe. “It looks like I have lost. Now, what is your wish?”

     My grandfather wished for the well-being of his friend.

     “You risked your own life for the life of another?” Yi Pin asked. My grandfather nodded and repeated his wish. Yi Pin stared at my grandfather for a few moments as they smoked their pipe, studying my grandfather with curiosity. “You are truly an interesting character,” Yi Pin closed their eyes. “Your wish is granted. I hope you will come challenge me again, I would hate to have finally found a worthy opponent only to have played him once in the whole of my existence.”

     “Why would I risk my life just to entertain a spirit?” my grandfather asked.

     “There must be something that you want,” Yi Pin said. “I may be the only one able to give you what you seek.” And, before my grandfather could respond, Yi Pin was gone; a strong gust of wind signaling their exit.

     The next day my grandfather waited outside the hospital and watched as his friend walked out, healthier than he had ever been. My grandfather did not tell Nieh about his match with Yi Pin, but on their way back to the military academy, my grandfather stopped by the town’s general store and bought a Wei Qi set.

     From that point on, my grandfather had practiced Wei Qi in every waking hour. He did not know what he sought, but Yi Pin’s words burned in his mind, refusing to let him go. He would play anyone who agreed, from students to teachers to townsfolk, even some of those who came to the town to challenge Yi Pin—arriving up to a week earlier to secure sleeping arrangements—would agree to a match with my grandfather.

     The next time Yi Pin appeared, the fourth of the next month, my grandfather was called into the headmaster’s office with Nieh and several other boys. The headmaster patted each of them on the shoulder and handed them their deployment orders, they were to leave in three days.

     Meanwhile, Yi Pin sat in the grassy field and played his challengers. Today, Yi Pin did not waste any time. Instead of toying with his opponents, the being mercilessly defeated one after another. By the time my grandfather stepped onto the field—covered in freshly fallen snow—Yi Pin was alone, smoking impatiently as they waited.

     “You have finally come,” Yi Pin said, their eyes already flashing with excitement.

     My grandfather nodded.

     “What is it that you seek?”

     “You will know when the match is done.”

     My grandfather sat down and the match began. It lasted hours. Each move was made with the utmost care on both sides, neither player showed any weakness or mercy and Yi Pin laughed with joy as the game entered its final phase. Then, just before the sun rose to signal the start of the next day, Yi Pin made the last move of the game. My grandfather’s heart beat into his ears, he was sure he had lost.

     “It seems that the game is finally done,” Yi Pin said, their eyes were ablaze with excitement. “A tie.”

     My grandfather looked up in disbelief and counted the stones. “A tie,” he concluded.

     “So,” Yi Pin said. “What will you take? Three wishes? Or a question’s answer?”

     My grandfather sat there and stared into Yi Pin’s eyes—vast and enigmatic. Why had the being done this? My grandfather shook his head and pondered his wishes. Suddenly, a random thought entered his mind. He spoke it without hesitation. “What gives meaning to life?”

     Yi Pin laughed at the question. “You never cease to fascinate me.”

     My grandfather waited for the answer.

     “Many years from now, you will live in a foreign country. On the hottest day of the year, you will find the answer that you seek.” This was the response Yi Pin gave to my grandfather before disappearing. The words were so cryptic that my grandfather felt cheated. He thought perhaps Yi Pin was getting revenge for the trick my grandfather had used to win last time. It seemed, to my grandfather, that Yi Pin had foretold the circumstances of his death, fighting on foreign soil in a war that would take his life. But what would his death tell him about the meaning of life?

     My grandfather survived the Chinese Civil War. He survived the Japanese Occupation, World War II, and the Communist Revolution. My grandfather lived to marry my grandmother, a primary school teacher and an acting nurse he met during World War II. He fathered three children and saw the birth of all five of his grandchildren. He carried each and every one of us home from the hospital in his own arms and cared for his family as long as he could. When my grandfather was eighty-two, he suffered a massive string of strokes and was transported to the United States where he lived under the care of my parents. Five years later, after dementia and the loss of nearly all his motor functions, on the hottest day of the year, the fourth of August, my grandfather died with a smile on his face, surrounded by his family.