Lying awake in the bunk bed he shared with his mother, Xiaohei had one simple question to ponder— how to sneak off of the top bunk without shaking the bed below. Sweat drenched his skin. The room’s swelteringly stagnant air and the dually mischievous and innocent expectation of adolescent adventure formed a potent combination. Xiaohei’s heart pounded. He loved his mother with everything, but tonight she was the primary barrier to a world of untold freedoms and possibilities, baijiu and beer, beautiful girls and brawls—the world of men.

Hey lay there. Breathing heavily, Xiaohei attempted to break the stalemate with his nerves. He’d made it out before, and that night was no different.

Old Mr. Yan in the room next door stayed up late every night watching war films on his television set. The imposing presence of the man and the echoes of gallantry that emanated from his room each night had always fascinated Xiaohei. His mother struggled to keep him in school and pay the rent for their small room in the workers’ dormitory each month, let alone afford such luxuries as a television. But one night months before, Xiaohei was lying awake in bed, listening to the murmurs of gunshots and artillery reverberate through the dormitory walls when he could no longer contain his curiosity. He leapt down from the top bunk, past his sleeping mother, out of his room, and over to the sliding plastic doors that separated Old Yan’s room from the common area hallway. He peaked around the slightly ajar doors and saw the back of Old Yan, eyes locked on the People’s Liberation Army advance unfolding in front of him. A silver trail of smoke meandered away from his strong but weathered hands, filling the room with the harsh yet sweet stench of Chinese tobacco. Xiaohei stood there watching, strangely entranced, when Old Yan suddenly turned around. Xiaohei set to flee, but the man beckoned him in. Instead of a scolding, Xiaohei got his first cigarette. Panda Lights to be precise—brand of choice for both Chairman Mao and Xiaohei’s father.

That night Xiaohei witnessed the full military defeat of the Kuomintang from the Communist’s Long March to Mao’s triumphant speech in Tiananmen—dramatized in a CCTV special, color commentated by tales from Old Yan’s glory days as a PLA officer, and punctuated by what seemed to be a never-ending supply of cigarettes. As the first puff of tobacco hit his lungs, Xiaohei felt the innate urge to cough but used all of his will to hold in the feeling. How humiliating it would be, he thought, if Old Yan were to know this was his first smoke. Did his grasp of the cigarette or facial expressions give him away? He’d seen thousands of men light up countless times in his day, but suddenly when it seemed to matter most he was clueless as to how they made it look so effortless. After the fourth cigarette, the harshness of each puff began to subside, and by the time the credits rolled Xiaohei felt like a natural. Old Yan bid him farewell, and Xiaohei snuck back into the little room he and his mother called home feeling like a man—or a little more like one anyway.

That night stuck out in Xiaohei’s mind ever since. It seemed he was a few steps closer to the light at the end of the tunnel. What he would find there, Xiaohei did not know. He had no guide, but he strove onward nonetheless—using guesswork and hints gathered from cameos in his life.

The same feeling of confusion and excitement he felt at Old Yan’s now pulsed through him with every heartbeat, but Xiaohei’s destination was far from the dormitory next door. Seizing a passing moment of courage, he leapt from his bunk and landed with a dull thud on the concrete below. He waited. No movement. Relieved, Xiaohei rapidly gathered his clothes and dressed. He was reaching for the door when his mother abruptly turned, facing straight in his direction. Xiaohei froze, terrified. He could always say he was off to the restroom down the hall, but his jeans and sneakers would clearly give him away. Ten long seconds passed with no disturbance or sound, and a rattled Xiaohei silently slipped outside, down the stairwell, and out into the freedom of the night.

His first destination was the liquor store, where he purchased a pack of Panda Lights. Walking down an alley, he promptly tore open the wrapper and lit up. To his great delight, the smoke tickled his throat but caused no urge to cough. On the contrary, the nicotine coursing through his veins calmed his senses and added a boost of confidence to his step. He set off down the road to meet up with some new friends—an older group of guys he had met around the neighborhood. They were meeting at one of the many illegal gambling dens that dot Beijing, but it was a far cry from the halls frequented by the business and government elite through which millions of Yuan pass each night. The dilapidated bar off the alley of Guanying road served primarily as a late-night hangout for a few of the many restless and poor young men that populate the city.  It was a good thirty-minute walk from Xiaohei’s dormitory, yet with the help of a few hopped fences and cross-park shortcuts he thought he could shave about ten minutes off. Just when he thought he’d lost the way, his eyes caught the neon green glow of the bar’s Tsingtao Beer sign. Approaching the entrance, he spotted a guy down the alley taking a piss.  The figure turned and a familiar voice called out.

“Xiaohei!” it yelled. “Where the hell have you been? We’ve got a bottle of baijiu waiting man.” His classmate hurried over and the two disappeared down the stairs and into the bar below. The smell of smoke sweat and cheap grain alcohol seemed to permeate the air and everything else. Objects and people seemed surreal when seen through the filter of cigarette smoke and dim lighting.  It was the type of aura only possible in the seediest of Beijing locales on the hottest of summer nights.

Probably thirty young men crowded the small room. Packed around card tables filled with countless beers and a handful of baijiu bottles, they joked, swore, bragged, and bet.  Xiaohei and his friend navigated through the mess and over to a table near the back wall filled with a few familiar faces. Before he could even say hello, there was a shot of baijiu in Xiaohei’s hand. Seconds later the liquor burned a fiery trail down his throat. The camaraderie of the shared pain heralded the start of the night. Xiaohei had never been gambling before and had only been drunk on a handful of occasions. Tonight he simply planned to watch the games, drink, and smoke with the rest of the guys. It was a raucous time, bringing to mind a few of Old Yan’s stories from the war of liberation. Xiaohei smiled. He was drunk with the excitement of the new, and it didn’t take too many more shots before he was sufficiently intoxicated with alcohol as well. Reality started to blur, but something in Xiaohei felt a little clearer. The night passed by each song, howl, drag, and shot at a time. He settled into the moment.

As the empty cans began to pile up, someone suggested Xiaohei join in the gambling. When he declined, his friends began to nag and joust, yet one taunting voice turned nasty. “You afraid your mama will find out?” he laughed. “You gonna go run back to her tonight before she gets too lonely.” It was a tall cocky kid named Youqi from the neighboring high school. Xiaohei knew of him, but they had never been friendly. On the contrary, they had always been antagonists. While mothers are the brunt of the majority of Beijinger’s jokes and curses, use by anyone other than close friends are almost exclusively fighting words. Xiaohei retaliated with a few insults of his own, and attempted to make his way outside for a cigarette to escape the tension-filled atmosphere. But his taunter followed.

“I guess she has been a little lonely lately. I can only afford her company a few times a week.”

In an automatic reflex, Xiaohei spun around and swung with full force. It was not the smooth swing of a fighter, but awkward—as if unexpected by Xiaohei himself. Still the blow landed straight above the right eye with all of the force Xiaohei could muster and Youqi fell back stunned. The next minute flew by in a blur of adrenaline as blows were exchanged and the bar erupted in commotion. Before too much damage had been done the two were separated. Such disruptions were by no means uncommon among such clientele, and apart from the cursing of the managers, the bar soon settled into its usual state. When Xiaohei finally regained his senses he made his way outside with a friend.  Saying nothing, they both lit cigarettes.

As he exhaled the last puff of smoke, two other friends emerged from the bar. They explained that they had successfully calmed both the bouncers and Youqi. Neither was hurt badly, but Youqi clearly looked the worse off—his eye was already swollen and beginning to bruise from the first punch, while Xiaohei had only a few cuts and bruises. Rattled, Xiaohei thanked them, handed over a few hundred kuai bills, and told them he was heading home.

The flare-up inside tore him from the youthful forgetfulness of the moment. Reality reigned for a second, but the pendulum swung across to a darker place where thoughts and feelings held sway.  At that moment his mother was passed out at home, exhausted from the twelve hours of labor each day that kept them together in Beijing, and yet Xiaohei was off smoking and drinking away the little cash that was left. Overwhelmed with guilt, he made his way home with muscle memory, seeing nothing while lost in his mind. Time, usually so constant and dependable, began to play its tricks. What a short time before been a twenty-minute walk seemed to last for hours.

Just as he was nearing the halfway point, four figures emerged from an alleyway. Xiaohei saw Youqi’s face, then felt the rough texture of concrete scraping his back as he was forced against a wall. He heard the crunch of his nose collapsing beneath the force of a fist. A metal crowbar landed on his arm, bone splintered, and then he felt nothing at all.

When Xiaohei’s eyes opened the intensity of the pain was nauseating. He immediately threw up. A combination of sweat, blood, and stomach fluids drenched his clothes. It took a few minutes to come to, but the dawn of reality only left Xiaohei feeling even more helpless. He had only one choice.

With his still functioning right arm, he pulled out his cell phone and called the only person he could think of in such circumstances. It had been years since they had spoken, but Xiaohei knew this situation was different. No matter the distance between a father and son, in Beijing’s world of reprisal violence and vigilante justice a father always provides a last line of defense.

“If anyone gives you trouble,” his father had told him numerous times as a child, “you come straight to me. No one screws with my son.”

Retribution was the last thing on Xiaohei’s mind. He was lying in the middle of an apartment complex park at four in the morning throbbing with pain and able to move—he needed help. He dialed his father’s number three times before a gruff voice answered.

“Wei? Who is it?” Xiaohei’s jumped up to his knees. He really was there.

“It’s Xiaohei,” he replied, biting his lip.

“Xiaohei? What the hell are you doing calling me in the middle of the night?”

“I’m in trouble,” he hesitated. “I, I need your help.” He wanted to go on, but the words weren’t there. For years had wanted to talk with his father, and that night—of all nights—was the moment when it had to finally happen.

“Where’s your mother?” came the cold reply.

Xiaohei began to break down. “I don’t know where I am. I think I’m in a park.  I mean, I think my arm’s broken. There’s lots of blood. I—I don’t know what happened. In the bar I got into a fight. Then I was walking home, these guys came with weapons. Please, I don’t know what to do. I—” his voice trailed off. Against all of his remaining will, tears began to stream down Xiaohei’s face. He waited.

“You’re eighteen—a  grown man. Is this how that fucking woman raised you? What the hell are you doing screwing around with gangs anyway? Don’t call me again.” The call ended.

Xiaohei stared at the cell phone for a second, then collapsed to the ground as all of his muscles seemed to go limp.

The night sky burned a dull orange as Beijing’s countless tiny lights reflected off of the pollution wrought by the city’s millions of little lives. In a nondescript park somewhere in Haidian district Xiaohei lay bloodied and drunk—but more awake then he had ever been. His tear-filled eyes stared up at the starless yet glowing sky in realization.

There is no light at the end of the tunnel, no destination to run towards.

 Life is like the polluted, imperfect, but somehow—despite it all—still beautiful Beijing night sky. Everything’s all mixed up. Stars and sky, light and darkness, night and day.

What does eighteen mean anyway? Despite his father’s assertions, Xiaohei was born only fifteen years earlier. But then again, it didn’t really matter. He knew these names meant nothing. Fifteen. Eighteen, Twenty. Simply markers along a lifetime of groping through the dark.

Over a century ago, King Ludwig II of Bavaria was deemed insane by his government and confined to a castle south of Munich. One fateful day later, Ludwig and his psychologist, Bernhard von Gudden, were found dead in a nearby lake. Both deaths were ruled suicides by drowning and the case was closed. It shall be opened once more––over dinner.

The rules of the investigation were simple. Four individuals retuned from the grave to participate, and each was required to wait for their turn to speak, thus giving the speaker their full attention and themselves the time to eat a delicious Bavarian dinner after one hundred years resting six feet under. As I awaited the start of the trial, I could not help but notice that the walls of the Castle Neuschwanstein were dark and frigid, each lifeless stone lonely and foreboding. Looking out across the grand dining hall, the faces of Prince Luitpold, a peasant, King Ludwig II, and Empress Elizabeth were lit only by the torchlight. Each flame struggled to keep the darkness at bay­­––each flicker a tiny victory against the overwhelming nothingness consuming the chamber.

The day of the feast began as countless souls filled the great Bavarian tower of Neuschwanstein. The Emperor Luitpold of Saxony had come to celebrate peace and prosperity among the Germanic tribes. Princess Elsa of Bavaria welcomed him with open arms and joyous festivities throughout her beautiful land. Dancers twirled, jesters joked, and the hall was rife with laughter and light. It seemed that life was perfect, and not a soul lacked a rack of lamb or a mug of ale. Fate had been kind to Bavaria, blessing it with plentiful harvests and bountiful trade. The beautiful Princess Elsa had ruled as regent of the land since her father’s passing, leaving her four year old brother Fredrick as King of Bavaria. The feast was her day to show powerful Saxony to the north that Bavaria had not only survived under her rule, it had prospered.

As platter upon platter of lamb, veal, kraut, and bread assaulted the feasters, it seemed that nothing could go wrong. Until––that is––the course of white sausage was presented. Just as the Bavarian delicacy was placed in front of Luitpold and Elsa, the great doors of the hall burst open. In rushed the court herald, smitten with a look of utter dread. He ran to Elsa, and upon hearing the news all happiness was drowned in a mire of horror. Most did not notice the sudden entrance and continued in their merriment. As their child King lay dead and poisoned two floors below, they sang, they jested, and they howled with laughter. As word spread through the hall of the tragedy, cries and screams began to mix with the sounds of ignorant glee. The horror, the horror of the sound was unforgettable.

First to speak was Prince Luitpold, the Regent of Bavaria following Ludwig’s [un]timely death. He looked a cheery old man, with a glint in his eyes and a smile on his face. Rattling off his accomplishments as leader of Bavaria he bit into his white sausage with a grin. I took the opportunity to ask my first question, and his demeanor swiftly transformed.

“How would you describe your nephew, King Ludwig II?” I asked. The spark in his eyes flashed intensely as he responded in a bothered and anxious tone.

“The fool bankrupted Bavaria with his fantastical whims. His every hour in power brought us closer to failure. Thank God I had him ki––so tragic it was when he took his own life. ” Glancing nervously, he took another bite and continued, “Just like him to be so selfish.”

The fog of despair did not leave Castle Neuschwanstein, it only grew in its suffocating intensity. Less than a few hours after the discovery of the Child King’s untimely death, a new tragedy struck. Emperor Luitpold summoned his deputies and as Elsa weeped, he plotted her destruction. When the news reached Elsa that she was being accused of her brother’s poisonous murder her heart collapsed. Every joy, accomplishment, and hope retreated to the cellar of her soul. Emperor Luitpold was the greatest lord in the empire, and his influence was vastly beyond anything the small duchy of Bavaria could muster. If Luitpold sanctioned Elsa’s conviction, she would die a traitor’s death––disgraced, tortured, and purged. Her beloved Bavaria would pass into Luitpold’s holdings and its people would join the ranks of his growing empire. Taken to the throne tower in chains, she was thrown before Luitpold, a prisoner in her own castle.

The people watched this coup d’etat in terror. Bavarian guards had been slain during Elsa’s arrest and Luitpold’s band had taken control of the castle. In her faith and desperation, she professed to trust only in the judgment of God. A champion of her choosing would engage in battle against one of Luitpold’s to prove her innocence. Having massacred every Bavarian knight in the town, Luitpold agreed to the trial by combat. On her hands and knees, Elsa prayed to God for a champion, for a savior, for redemption. She had dreamed of such a knight, yet dreams seemed so dead in the biting cold of reality.

High above the valley, on the balcony of the throne room, the herald echoed out a call for a champion to fight for the beleaguered princess. One call echoed across the mountains and the streams, yet it was answered with a barren silence. Two calls cried down through the evergreen forests that carpeted the land below. Still no answer broke its melody of despair. A third and final trumpet call sang out from the balcony its sad song of despondency. Luitpold licked his lips in anticipation as the final call went unanswered. Seeing no champion came to her aid, Elsa was dragged to the castle grounds for the torture and execution.

Quite frankly, I had heard enough from Regent Luitpold.  I looked to his right to find a scraggly unkempt man. Passion and anger emanated from him. He was naught but a villager from the small town of Hohenschwangau, serenely nestled into the hills surrounding Neuschwanstein Castle. Before questioned, he burst into speech.

“I was there! I was there the night that our great King Ludwig was betrayed,” he yelled. Tears began to well up in his eyes. “Peasants from all over Bavaria swarmed to Neuschwanstein’s gates to protect the king they loved so dearly––that I loved so dearly. He walked with us. He ate with us. He was the Unser Kini, our darling king.” The man sat there, striving to keep himself composed. His eyes dared not wander to Luitpold in fear of rage, nor could they turn to Ludwig else they drown in despair. They caught the eyes of Empress Elisabeth, Ludwig’s cousin, who gazed back in empathetic agony.

The sky was never clearer than it was that fateful night. The land at the base of Neuschwanstein was not more than a small clearing of The Black Forest intersected by a winding stream. The glowing moon cast a pale light across the landscape, and its image reflected in the lazy waters. There Elsa sat, bound and beaten, awaiting pain and death. As the executioner read the guilty verdict, every semblance of hope seemed destroyed. Her life would soon be snuffed out and every hope and aspiration along with it. Princess Elsa took one last look at the land that she loved so much––had devoted her life to––and was transfixed by the moons mirror in the stream.  In it she found the peace to die strong, to die with dignity.

             Excited by the prospect of unraveling the fateful mystery once and for all, I looked to King Ludwig II. I found that I could not look away. His face was one of anguish, with eyes that revealed a tragic tale in their reflections. They held the overwhelming quality of lost innocence. Where wonder and fantasy had once occupied, I now saw only sorrow––the overwhelming sorrow of crushed dreams.

“I trusted you uncle,” he began. “I loved this country and you––”

Suddenly, Ludwig began to choke on his white sausage. The peasant rushed to save him, but it was no use. His attempt at the Heimlich was not successful, and Ludwig met a tragic end for the second time. I was utterly shocked. I sat there in disbelief that I would never uncover the mystery that I was only words from discovering.

Suddenly the pale lunar image was shattered by the breaking of the water. A swan glided by, its majestic white feathers glowing in the moonlight. To the amazement of the crowd, a knight in white armour emerged around the bend, floating on a boat flanked by swans. The champion of Elsa’s dreams stepped off the boat, and tears ran down her face. Kneeling before him, she asked if he would be her champion, her protector, her redeemer. The knight accepted, and his valiant blade disarmed the Emperor Luitpold in combat. Sparing the Emperor’s life, the white knight declared Elsa innocent and asked for her hand in marriage.

Under the same moon they were wed, bound by love and devotion to Bavaria and each other. Emperor Luitpold was stripped of his titles and exiled, while Bavaria flourished once more. From Neuschwanstein, the castle of the swans, they reigned 100 years as Queen Elsa and King Ludwig II of Bavaria.

With tears rolling down her face, Empress Elisabeth recounted the words she had spoken a hundred years before.

           “The King was not mad; he was just an eccentric living in a world of dreams. They might have treated him more gently, and thus perhaps spared him so terrible an end.”