Chapter XXI
In the evening after Scobee had retired Hung Long Tom walked alone through the garden. Here as a boy he had studied and played. Here he had written his lyrics, dreamed of the future, woven mist-like legends around the beautiful Lotus Blossom. He closed his eyes and breathed deeply of the fragrant air, sweetened by ten thousand flowers. It was almost as though he had never left the garden. The perfumes were the same he had known in his youth. But there was this change. Most of the blossoms of his life were broken. Was there not an ancient weaver of stories, Wai Chang by name who wrote, “Man’s life is but a journey through a garden. To each of us is allotted so many flowers. Some
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