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Houyi the Archer Fights the Sun

by Cynthia Zhang

 

“I,” Houyi the Archer says one bright August afternoon when the thermometers hit 103 and the teenagers crack eggs on the sidewalk to see if they’ll fry, “am going to fight the sun.”

“Husband,” says Chang’E, three thousand years into immortality and long past reacting to these types of statements, “please do not fight the sun. We only have the one left, and most people would not appreciate having it gone.”

“Some might, though.” Above them, the ceiling fan whirls, valiantly trying to assuage the heat. The maintenance company, when Houyi called, gave the next available date for fixing the air conditioning as Monday, which — while not too far away — is crucially not today. “The tanuki pack in Arlington Heights or all those hipster vamp kids in Logan Square, I’m sure they’d come down to personally thank me. Besides, I didn’t say I was going to kill the sun. Just rough it up a little, teach it a few lessons about respect.”

“A truly terrifying prospect. Gods and men tremble at your approach, naught but the bravest of heroes can dare but stand when you draw near.” On her Sudoku puzzle, Chang’E pencils in a seven, frowns, and then erases it. “Humans have lived thousands of years without air conditioning, Houyi. We can survive a few days.”

“Aiyah, but that was thousands of years ago, before we had electricity and coal and acid in our rain. This sun’s been getting far too bold, I say. In the old days, I would already have a fast mount and a full quiver to chase the whelp down.”

“If you are mulling over old battles,” Chang’E says, “perhaps it would be better if you had something else to occupy your mind.” Placing her Sudoku book on the coffee table, she stands up. “I have a task for you, my husband.”

The effects of these words are instant. “A task, is it? Well! Let’s have it. What is it you need, my best beloved? The first fallen feather from a newborn phoenix, a sprig of new buds from the world tree, the last dried slices from this millennia’s crop of divine peaches on Kunlun Mountain?”

“Something like that.” Chang’E takes her purse off the wall hook, smooths down an errant wrinkle in her dress. “We are in need of groceries once more, my beloved. I would appreciate your help in seeing this task to completion.”

“In this weather? Do you care so little for your husband that you would have him roasted to ashes?”

“I care enough for my husband that I would not have him starve, yes. Besides, we’ll be spending most of the time indoors, and the stores have air conditioning.”

“The trials we must brave in this cruel world,” Houyi says, sighing as he reaches for his cane. “To think that after all our years of service, this is how the world repays its heroes of lore: with broken air conditioning and technicians unavailable until Monday.”

“Don’t forget to put on sunscreen,” Chang’E says, checking her sunhat in the hallway mirror. “You may have bested his brothers before, but the sun is still a formidable foe.”

---

Houyi, dutifully trundling their shopping cart across narrow sidewalks and cracked asphalt, is sweating by the time they reach Tai Hwa Market. On instinct, he reaches for a chilled Tsinghua to place in their cart.

“No,” Chang’E says, slapping his hand away. “No alcohol on an empty stomach.”

“Betrayed by those closest to me,” Houyi laments as he lets himself be led away from the refrigerated drinks. “What is the use of immortality if a man cannot simply have a cold drink when he desires?”

“And so here you are,” Chang’E says, taking a frozen water bottle out of her handbag. Time outside the freezer means the ice has begun to melt, but a large chunk still remains, bobbing up and down the bottle like a small glacier. “As cold as you could want, and twice as healthy. Dearest, can you grab some star anise from that top shelf there? Rock sugar, too — I’ve been thinking of making hong shao rou soon.”

Houyi does manage to sneak a clamshell of sesame balls into their cart, which Chang’E allows despite the doctor’s warnings about excess sugar. There is a sale on peaches — not the magical, immortality granting kind that so much blood has been shed over, but still cold and good and sweet. Many years ago, when Houyi was a younger and more foolish man, he would have scorned such ordinary fruit — no way to compare, not in taste or texture, to the nectar sweetness of immortality. Many things had seemed beneath him then, intoxicated on glory and newfound fame: friends, conscience, and, for several months of arrogant cruelty he cringes to remember, even love.

Chang’E picks up a peach the size of her head, frowning as she examines it for bruising. For a moment, they are not in a grocery store in Chicago on the hottest day of the year, but centuries and continents away — no crow’s feet at the edge of their eyes, no ache in disobedient joints, just a young, brash hero who had just conquered the sun and the only girl on Earth or in heaven fearless enough to have him.

Houyi has lost many things since his days of glory — his kingship, his palace, much of the blackness in his hair — but the most important ones have all returned. Returned, and remained, even when he was hardly deserving of them.

In the checkout line, Houyi presses a kiss to his wife’s cheek.

“You’re affectionate today,” Chang’E says, surprised but smiling as she turns to him. “Something on your mind, husband?”

“A man can’t just do something because he wants to? Lao tien ye, what kind of world do we live in, where a husband can’t show a little simple affection to his wife.”

“You can show me your affection by remembering to take out the trash tonight, beloved.”

“And that,” Houyi says, loading the bagged groceries into their cart, “is where I claim victory again, because I already did it this morning, before the sun could try and bake us alive.”

The automatic doors slide open, depositing the two immortals back into the baking heat of the afternoon.

“Well?” Houyi asks, squinting against the glare. The temperature has gone down slightly, bringing a few more people out of doors, but there are still hours to go before sunset will bring blessedly cool night air. “Where to now, oh wife of mine?”

“Hm.” Chang’E shades her eyes against the light. Despite the heat, it’s an uncommonly beautiful day — clear air, not a cloud in the sky, and the sun above shining like a farm-fresh egg yolk, fat and smugly golden. On the sidewalk across the street, a young woman talks on a headset while walking three little poodles, all differently colored but adorned with identical pink hair ribbons. A man on a street corner plays what Houyi thinks is a Beatles song on an er-hu, nodding whenever anyone drops a dollar into his open case. By the arching pailong that welcomes visitors to Old Chinatown, a boy in a lotus-patterned T-shirt glides back and forth on freeline skates. Nezha — Third Lotus Prince, Marshall of the Central Altar, defender of children and general pain-in-the-ass to everyone else — catches Houyi’s eye and grins, before doing a complicated spinning jump that makes Houyi’s bones ache just watching. “Shall we stop by for some tea, perhaps?”

---

A year ago, Houyi’s favorite bakery, where they sold fat, flaky pineapple buns for a dollar each, had shuttered after struggling to pay rent for months. The new tea shop that popped up in its place, Houyi will grudgingly admit, isn’t entirely terrible, even if their menu has far too many drinks with grass jelly and red bean and cheese foam. Tea should taste like tea, and not too sweet American desserts.

As Chang’E waits by the counter for their drinks, Houyi snags a table before any of the teenagers nearby can, placing his groceries down in the seat beside him to signal its unavailability. For good measure, he puts on his best scowl as well, glaring daggers at any of the couples daring to eye their table.

“Houyi the Archer,” a familiar voice calls. “Fancy seeing you here.”

“Amaterasu,” Houyi replies, turning to face the tall woman approaching him. “We came here to escape the sun’s oppressive heat, but I should have known that would be far too easy.”

Amaterasu smiles. Dressed in a white sundress and matching hat, she looks almost like any other mortal woman in the store, save for her eyes, the gold of wheat and summer sun, and the slight iridescent shine to her long black hair. A white-and-gold handbag dangles from one hand, while the other clutches a vividly pink bubble tea.

“Technically, it’s not me you should be blaming for this weather. I’m merely an avatar, one of many representations dreamed up in human minds.”

“A representation of eternal annoyance, that’s what you are.”

“Houyi,” Chang’E says, lightly chastising as she walks over with two plastic cups of chilled barley tea. “Be polite. And the Lady Amaterasu,” Chang’E says, inclining her head at her. “A pleasure as always to see you.”

“As it is for me, Lady Chang’E.”

“It isn’t a pleasure for me,” Houyi grumbles. Both women ignore him. “What are you doing here, anyways? This isn’t your usual place.”

“I,” Amaterasu says, smiling beatifically as she pulls over a seat from a neighboring table, “was Called.”

“Ah.” Chang’E nods. “Okami fan meet-up, I’m guessing?”

“Cosplay, actually,” Amaterasu says. “Very impressive costumes too, and a good turnout for an older game. One of them brought a Samoyed dressed as my video game counterpart, though the poor creature seemed unenthusiastic about the weather.”

“Don’t blame them,” Houyi grumbles. “People should be inside on a day like this, sitting by the air conditioner and eating popsicles. I ought to fly up there, show that punk why Houyi the Archer is a household name.”

“Always violence with you,” Amaterasu says, shaking her head. “Any problem, and your solution is always slashing or shooting it down. Why is that?”

“Because it’s easy, and very efficient. You don’t want me shooting things down, you or Horus or one of the other sun gods can go up there and tell that bastard to turn it down.”

“We’re gods of the sun, not climate. The sun has emitted its light at a steady rate for four billion years; it’s conditions on Earth that have changed, not up there. If you want it to be cooler, take it up with the greenhouse gasses people keep introducing into the atmosphere.” Amaterasu raises an eyebrow, a smile playing at the edge of her lips. “Unless that would be too difficult for the great Houyi the Archer?”

“Please refrain from goading my husband,” Chang’E says. “You know he’s never been able to turn down a challenge.”

“I would never,” Amaterasu says, placing a hand over her heart. “Why, if Houyi could challenge the weather and successfully convince it towards a more moderate temperature, I would be the first to write odes to his prowess. It’s quite annoying, seeing humans blame the sun for doing exactly the same thing it’s been doing for four billion years when it is their own fault they feel the heat so strongly now. If they’d spent less time clearing forests and filling rivers with poison, perhaps they wouldn’t need so many machines to make summers bearable now.”

“Damn right,” Houyi says, conceding this one point of agreement between them. “Always humans, mucking everything up.”

Amaterasu shakes her head. “Humans indeed.”

Surrounded by humans, they drink their tea.

“It was easier in the old days,” Houyi says. “Then, you could just challenge the storm gods to a good brawl when the rains ruined your crops or offer some baijiu to a spring goddess if the winter went for too long. Now, it’s all atmospheric particles and scientists with their clipboards, trying to find ways to fix what they ruined. No respect at all for the old ways. No,” Houyi sighs, joints cracking as he shifts in his chair. “The world has moved on beyond gods and heroes.”

“There, there now.” Amaterasu pats his shoulder, only a little condescending. “Just because the world has shifted some does not mean there is no need for brave men of action.”

“Is that so? What, should I vote for another corrupt politician? Attend a school board meeting where the white mothers will pretend they can’t understand my English? Call a senator about how he should stop letting the oil companies dump plastic in poor countries, please oh please and thank you very much?”

“Yes,” Chang’E says. “We may live in a different world, but bitterness has never suited you, my husband. The man I married would never concede defeat so easily.”

“I,” Houyi says, “am not conceding defeat. Just expressing my frustration about human folly and this country with no proper respect for its elders and the gods-damned maintenance company who won’t come until Monday. Monday! What is the point of living in a city in the twenty-first century if we have to wait three to five business days to fix the air conditioning?”

Draining the last of his tea, Houyi puts his glass down with more force than necessary. The table rattles, but ultimately stands firm.

Across the table, Chang’E and Amaterasu exchange a glance.

“There may be something we can do before then, actually,” Chang’E says. “Beloved, have you ever considered the moon?”

“Huh? Why would I need to do that? Big rock in the sky, makes tides rise and poets write sentimental odes to old lovers. Steals wives away to leave your bed cold and empty, so all you can do is lie awake and stare at the smug usurper who takes her each night. What else is there to know?”

“Oh, husband,” Chang’E says, placing a hand over his. “Who would tend the lunar gardens, pruning the jasmine and harvesting the moonbeams before they wither, or help poor Yu Tu with her rice cakes if I didn’t visit? Besides, I come back, don’t I? I always will.”

“The bed is always too big without you.” Houyi crosses his arms and looks away, but he lets Chang’E kiss his cheek.

“Aw,” Amaterasu says, phone out and snapping a photo before Houyi can stop her. “Cute! Now, as your wife was saying, just as the moon turns the sun’s rays into nightly illumination, maybe there are more productive manners of channeling your animosity, hm? I hear tai chi’s popular at the senior center.”

“Oh, I’ll show you channeling animosity. Meet me outside in the park, sundown, your choice of weapon.”

Sighing, Chang’E places a hand on Houyi’s arm. “Even if you meet at sundown, in this weather you’d both faint from heatstroke walking there. What I am trying to communicate, dearest husband, is that though the electrical companies may be slow and incompetent, there are other ways of satisfying our desires.”

Houyi stares at Chang’E, uncomprehending.

“Solar power,” Amaterasu adds.

“Oh.” Then, “what?”

This time it is Amaterasu’s turn to sigh. “Solar power, Houyi. Perhaps you’ve heard of it? A promising venture in renewable energy, with the potential to provide clean, renewable electricity for millions around the world —”

“I know what solar power is, you solar nuisance. What I don’t understand is what this has to do with anything we’ve been talking about.”

“You don’t? You really, truly don’t?”

“Give him a moment,” Chang’E says. “Houyi can be obstinate, but he usually finds his way in the end. Dearest, how do you think it is that the moon gains its glow?”

“Beyond unbearable smugness? Well, the light comes from the sun, of course . . .”

Understanding, when it arrives, descends on Houyi like a diving hawk. “Son of a bitch.”

“Indeed.” Amaterasu smiles, beatific. “Though I will not help you harm my patron, I can affect what is done with its light. Rice, wine, tea — these are all things grown to fullness by sunlight. Extending my gift to convert one malfunctioning air conditioner to solar power for a few days should not be difficult at all. And once you have the panels properly installed, there will be no need for my intervention at all.”

“Panels, huh.” Houyi leans back, the plastic chair creaking. “Those assholes in the Home Owners Association are going to have a stroke.”

“Beloved,” Chang’E says, placing a hand over his. “You are Houyi the Archer. If you would fight the sun, then a zoning committee should be easy work, should it not?”

Houyi grins, and it is the wild, joyful smile of a hunter with a new quarry in his sight. “You think if I shot them they’d give us any trouble?”

“I think if you shot anyone, I as your wife would be very disappointed in you, as would the poor janitors left to clean up the blood. It is the twenty-first century, Houyi. I trust in your ability to master modern weapons as well as you have wielded old ones.”

“The burdens you place on me, oh wife of mine.” But there’s a calculating glint in Houyi’s eyes, the kind of gleam that in days bygone would have made all the gods in heaven tremble. Evelyn Walker and her busybody cronies might have banned archery practice on condominium premises, citing some nonsense about “safety concerns” and “alarming the neighbors,” but one skirmish did not decide the course of war.

It is not shooting down nine impertinent suns or killing the man-eating Yayu, but it would be a fierce battle nonetheless. And Houyi the Archer, the taste of blood already on his tongue, would settle for nothing less than total victory.