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Scorby was still serving, he asked, ‘Where’s Wu?’
    ‘Wu Chung?’ Scorby asked, as if there was another Chinese sailor named Wu on board who Sherlock might have been asking after. ‘Up on deck, mate. ’E’s doin’
some kind of strange dance.’
    Sherlock felt a sense of relief wash over him. Wu wasn’t exactly a friend, but he was one of the few sailors to have taken an interest in him. If Wu had died then who else was going to
teach Sherlock Cantonese?
    He headed up the ladder towards the deck. The bright light made him blink and screw up his eyes. When they had adjusted he looked around, checking for any damage that the storm had left. It was
as if nothing had happened. The sails were full, the masts and yards were intact, and the deck was as dry as it ever got. The sailors on shift were moving around normally. Despite the violence of
the previous night Sherlock got the impression that tropical storms were something that happened, were dealt with and were then forgotten. Everyone and everything moved on.
    Wu Chung was standing in the centre of the deck. He was poised with his weight on his bent right leg. His left leg was extended straight to the deck in front of him. His right arm was raised in
a hooked shape, almost cradling the back of his head, and his left arm was extended to match his left leg. The fingers were together and curled, with the palm facing upward, as if he was gesturing
someone to approach him. The pose looked as if it was putting significant stress on the muscles of Wu’s right leg and back, but he kept as stationary as a statue for a minute or more before
moving slowly to another pose.
    As Sherlock watched, Wu Chung took a series of statue-like poses interspersed with slow movements. As Scorby had said, it
was
something like a dance, but there was more to it. Sherlock
began to detect repeated elements within the poses – blocks and strikes, as if Wu was engaged in a very slow fight with an invisible opponent.
    Eventually, he straightened up, letting his arms fall to his sides. He was breathing deeply, but not heavily. He glanced over to where Sherlock was standing.
    ‘You see me practise, ha?’ he said in English.
    ‘I did. What is it that you are practising?’
    Wu smiled. ‘What you think?’
    ‘I think it was like a fight, like boxing but different. I think it was like
shadow-
boxing.’
    Wu nodded, and bowed slightly towards Sherlock. ‘Very good. Most people say I am dancing badly.’
    ‘I’ve never seen you do it before.’
    ‘You have never been awake this early before. I do this every morning for one hour.’
    ‘Why?’ Sherlock asked simply.
    ‘Ah, that is a good question.’ Wu came over to stand beside Sherlock. ‘In your country, boxing is something men learn so they can hit other people and make them bleed. In my
country,
T’ai chi ch’uan
is something children learn so they can calm their minds and master their bodies.’
    ‘
T’ai chi ch’uan?
’ Sherlock asked.
    ‘It means “boundless fist”, or maybe “great extremes boxing”.’
    ‘Tell me more,’ Sherlock asked.
    Wu gestured to an empty area of deck over to one side. ‘Let us sit. There is much to tell, and I am not as young as I once was.’ Once they were both settled, cross-legged on the
deck, he started to speak, and Sherlock listened, fascinated. ‘I start by telling you that there are two different styles of fighting in China. There is
Shaolinquan
, which is all
–’ he waved his arms around wildly – ‘action and activity, all about the body doing things, and there is
Wudangquan
, which is all about the mind
controlling
the body.’ He sniffed derisively. ‘Those who practise
Shaolinquan
leap about with strength and force, but people who are not good at this kind of training soon lose their breath
and are exhausted.
Wudangquan
is unlike this. We strive for quietness of body, mind and intention. We seek that still point in the centre from which all activity must