Breaking Bamboo

by Tim Murgatroyd

  Guang shook his head ruefully.

  ‘I have been at fault,’ he said. ‘It is an elder brother’s duty to guide you. But I have been too busy killing Mongols! You must forgive me.’

  They laughed and Shih glanced round the splendid hall.

  Carved friezes of noble banquets lined one wall. On another hung paintings and delicate calligraphy. Such fine things were quite beyond his means, though he brought people life not death.

  ‘Besides, I needed to see you for a reason,’ continued Guang.

  ‘I have been honoured, Little Brother! I am to accompany Prefect Wang Bai to the capital on a secret embassy. The fate of the Twin Cities may depend on it.’

  Shih poured himself another bowl of wine, emptying it in two gulps.

  ‘You are to leave us?’

  ‘For a few months at most. We will travel overland through the siege lines, using a secret route, then join a waiting flotilla a hundred li further downstream. I shall return in the autumn at the head of a great force. One that shall drive the barbarians back to the borders. Then Three-Step-House and Wei Valley shall be restored to us.’

  ‘Wei Valley,’ said Shih, dully. ‘I think of it sometimes. I suspect even Father no longer believes it will be ours again. . .’

  Shih placed his bowl on the lacquered table. A change of mood made his heavy eyelids blink.

  ‘Guang, when was the last time you visited Father?’ he asked.

  ‘Tonight, of course! Father was asleep so I could not speak to him. A great pity. Cao told me he had taken his medicine and would not wake until morning.’

  ‘Why not before tonight?’

  Guang blinked in surprise.

  ‘My duties. . . I did visit him once when you and Cao were not at home. He was hiding in the tower room. How fearful of Bayke he has grown! I fear his sanity has worsened. Thank goodness he has your medicines to help him.’

  ‘He pours scorn on us everyday!’ broke in Shih. ‘He abuses my manhood. I tell you he is unmanageable without your influence!’

  ‘You should not speak of Honoured Father in that way!’

  Shih laughed harshly.

  ‘The Honoured Father you neglect! Since you abandoned Father at my gate, you have visited him fewer times than I have fingers! What of me, who you also neglect? Don’t criticise me, Yun Guang! Day and night I strive to please everyone.’ He gestured wildly. ‘Everyone but myself!’

  ‘Little Brother! You are drunk. Your words are not proper.’

  Shih chuckled as he poured and swallowed another cup. It burned his throat. He felt giddy, intoxicated by something headier than wine.

  ‘No,’ he said. ‘ You are not proper, Captain Xiao! What is filial piety if not patience and respect? What reason have I for that? Don’t you remember how Father discarded me? How he abandoned me? Have you really forgotten?’

  ‘Little Brother!’

  ‘Now I will laugh! Truly I will! You still call me by that name! But you know it is a lie. I am not Little Brother, that name belongs to you.’

  The two stared at each other, appalled. Guang’s hands were trembling as he held his half-empty cup. At last Shih looked away uneasily.

  ‘I am not afraid of the truth,’ he muttered.

  He stared into a corner of the room. The storm that had billowed so unexpectedly died away, revealing hollowness: ‘I’m sick of this life! Sick in my being!’ he cried. ‘Whatever stern words you use can’t change that.’

  Shih laughed again, his drunken eyes blinking furiously.

  Anyone seeing him would not have recognised this wild, bitter man as the kindly doctor from Apricot Corner Court, who did so much good for the scantest of rewards. Yet one self flowed from and through the other.

  ‘My heart is empty, Guang!’ he cried. ‘That is why I am never at ease. Even with my dear Cao I am never wholly at ease!

  When Father sent me away he drained my heart. . . Oh, what does it matter? We both know the truth.’

  Guang’s tongue showed between his lips, as when a little child displays fear.

  ‘You must not speak ill of Father,’ he said. ‘I will not allow it.’

  Shih steadied himself in his chair. It seemed for a moment he might fall to the floor.

  ‘You are drunk,’ continued Guang. ‘That is why you speak such nonsense.’

  ‘Yes, I am drunk.’

  ‘I will pretend I did not hear.’

  Shih nodded. ‘Yes, let us pretend.’

  ‘I shall instruct some of my servants to escort you home.’

  ‘Very well.’

  Guang hesitated before calling his men.

  ‘Listen, Shih, I must leave in an hour’s time. I hoped we would embrace and laugh as friends do, as dearest brothers do!

  But please, look after Father in my absence. Can I trust you to protect him?’

  Shih nodded sadly.

  ‘I’m good for that,’ he said.

  But a strange glint in Shih’s eyes made Guang hesitate before he said: ‘I know you are.’

  ‘Then you know me better than myself.’

  They parted stiffly. The night became a floating world of lanterns on poles and tramping feet. Shih shivered inwardly.

  Guang would never forgive him for speaking aloud their family’s shameful secret. One was only permitted to brood over such things, year after year, until the spirit wearied of itself.

  He sobered a little as Apricot Corner Court came into view.

  Despite the late hour a carriage waited on the street. Several soldiers of the City Watch stood guard.

  The curtains of the carriage lifted as Shih approached, revealing Dr Fung’s anxious face. He had not seen him since the day Dr Du Mau ordered an inspection of the Relief Bureau.

  ‘Dr Shih!’ called out Fung in his soft, fluttering voice. ‘I have been sent by Dr Du Mau who has instructed me, in his capacity as head of the guild. . . Why, I beg you to come closer to the carriage.’

  Shih noticed Cao’s frightened face looking through the shop window. He felt an impulse to rush back to Guang and implore his protection, but it was too late for that.

  Dr Fung held open the carriage door and Shih peered unsteadily into the dark box, his nostrils detecting an acrid odour. Then he recognised Dr Fung’s companion and understood at once what such a presence meant. How the journey from old Dr Ou-yang’s medicine shop in the capital had always been destined to end this way, that karma was remorseless. The alcohol and rich food in Shih’s stomach churned; for a moment he struggled against nausea. Suddenly harsh hands were dragging him away and he vomited over his own clothes.

  twelve

  ‘Lesson 24. The Capital! Centre of the Five Directions! On one side lies the West Lake, startlingly clear, and on the other a broad river rich and cloudy with sediment! ( Yang lake, yin river). Canals pattern the districts into lattices of dense, tall wooden houses. One can traverse the city by means of these canals quite as quickly as by the roads. ( Water element: canal; Earth element; road). All the natural laws are followed where the Son of Heaven dwells!’

  From an untitled woodcut primer, intended for students studying the First Examination.

  *

  Linan, Eastern China. Summer, 1267

  Guang approached the capital on a paddle-driven destroyer. They had made swift progress from the Yangtze, following the Grand Canal south. The coolies cranked the paddle shafts under the watchful eye of their overseer. The Wang family banner of three yellow chrysanthemums flew from prow and stern. No one recognised it as a noble symbol. Indeed, one wastrel, leering down from the balustrade of a high curved bridge, had enquired whether they belonged to the ‘Chrysanthemum Brigade’, meaning prostitutes trained to sing ‘southern style’. Guang had to be restrained by Chen Song from leaping ashore to administer a beating.

  At last, after weeks on the river, their flotilla entered the outer suburbs of Linan, the Empire’s capital, seat of Heaven’s Chosen Son, and Guang had succumbed to awe. Though he had visited many great cities nothing had pr
epared him for Linan’s sheer scale. The outer walls stretched for li after li. High houses and low, warehouses and grand markets, people scurrying after ten thousand kinds of reward. Guang’s attention was drawn to the military encampments they passed.

  It seemed most of His Highness’s army had gathered round the capital though the Mongols were attacking far to the north west. The soldiers looked listless, reduced by boredom to ill-discipline.

  ‘Sir,’ he said, seeking out Wang Bai, who lolled in state on a high-backed chair beneath a splendid silk awning. ‘How is it so many regiments are here?’

  Wang Bai’s smooth face flickered with a darker emotion.

  ‘It is a question my noble uncle has raised in several memoranda to His Majesty.’

  Guang waited for more but Wang Bai waved him away and resumed his steady, watchful brooding. He joined Chen Song at the prow. The scholar-soldier seemed inspired by the bustle and prosperity all around them.

  ‘Here one may glimpse why we gladly suffer at the front,’ remarked Chen Song. ‘These scenes of order and peace confirm His Highness enjoys the Mandate of Heaven.’

  ‘Many defectors to the Great Khan disagree,’ replied Guang, quite as formally. ‘They ask, how may one explain our reverses on the frontier? Or the loss of our ancestral lands?’

  Chen Song shook his head.

  ‘Such turncoats are vile traitors.’

  ‘As for me,’ continued Guang. ‘I believe these prosperous people you admire have no idea how we suffer on their behalf.

  I doubt one in a hundred cares that the Twin Cities are besieged.’

  He recollected the strange fear and nervousness that had gripped him in their first days away from Nancheng. No longer feeling trapped and surrounded by a pitiless enemy had a contra dictory effect. Instead of release, he felt anxiety.

  ‘I cannot believe that,’ said Chen Song. ‘Nancheng and Fouzhou are the dams preventing the enemy from releasing a flood that would drown our Empire.’

  ‘You are eloquent,’ said Guang.

  At noon the Grand Canal came to an end, depositing their small convoy on the long wharf of Linan’s famous West Lake.

  Crowds of merchants and longshoremen, beggars and idlers, went about their business. Now it was Guang’s turn to feel inspired. The West Lake featured in many of Great-grandfather Yun Cai’s most popular and enduring poems. For a moment the old longing to be a poet like his noble ancestor caught him on its rusty hook. He was released by Wang Bai’s querulous voice.

  ‘Find a palanquin to bear me to the Palace!’ called his patron to one of the servants. ‘Commander Yun Guang! Prepare an honour guard led by yourself.’

  He did as instructed, asking Chen Song to find suitable lodgings for all the officers, as only Wang Bai and a few body servants were to be accommodated in the Palace.

  ‘I already have somewhere in mind,’ smiled Chen Song, refusing to say more.

  They hired the finest palanquin on the wharf, decorated with images of the Immortal Liu Hai standing on a three-legged toad. Wang Bai examined it suspiciously. He stiffly climbed aboard, hidden from the eyes of the city by thick, red brocade drapes.

  The procession headed east, then south along the Imperial Way, trotting at the double to emphasise Wang Bai’s rank. The street was a hundred yards wide. Temples and many-storied buildings with flying balconies lined the way. Flags and banners proclaimed fashionable teashops and restaurants. They hurried past markets where hundreds of stalls devoured wealth from all corners of the world and strings of cash formed a serpent long enough to constrict the entire city.

  Guang was out of breath, forehead moist with sweat, by the time he glimpsed the first towering gatehouse of the Palace. He tugged at the palanquin’s curtain.

  ‘Your Excellency!’ he called. ‘We near our destination!’

  He expected Wang Bai to part the curtain a little. Indeed, he desired it. Was he, Captain Xiao, hero of Swallow Gate, reduced to a mere escort now the Mongols were far away?

  ‘Carry on!’ called a muffled voice from within.

  When they reached the first archway decked with dragon and phoenix statues, a detachment of Imperial Guardsmen blocked the way. Guang realised his armour was scuffed and damaged from numerous blows, whereas theirs was flawless.

  Yet he rose half a head above the tallest.

  ‘His Excellency Wang Bai!’ he announced.

  The guard officer looked at him uncomprehendingly and seemed inclined to sneer.

  ‘Deposit a petition at one of the appropriate ministries,’ drawled the officer. ‘No entry without authorisation.’

  Then Wang Bai’s arm appeared through the brocade curtain.

  His pale hand held a scroll. With a flick, he let the document unroll. All capable of reading blinked in surprise. It was an urgent summons, bearing the divine seal of the Son of Heaven’s First Chancellor. Now the guardsmen fell to their knees. Wang Bai rapped on the roof to indicate they should proceed.

  Guang stepped aside as the exhausted porters stumbled forward. The curtain parted and Wang Bai called out: ‘Find your own quarters, Guang, but ensure the ships are ready to leave at any time. I shall send word if you are required.’

  The palanquin vanished into the palace complex and Guang was left on the dusty road with his battle-hardened soldiers.

  ‘Buy wine and pork,’ he ordered, passing over several strings of cash. ‘Toast the health of Pacification Commissioner Wang Ting-bo! Sergeant, take my helmet and halberd, as well as these gauntlets. I’ll join you on the ships before midnight. You have done your duty well.’

  ‘It’s your name we’ll toast, sir!’ called out the sergeant. ‘Not the Wang clan.’

  Guang ignored this disloyalty and was left alone amidst a hundred thousand people. Litters and plodding camels and donkey-carts filled the Imperial way. Despite retaining his sword, he felt more exposed than when arrows showered down on Swallow Gate.

  *

  Yun Guang paced up and down before the Imperial Palace, one hand resting on the hilt of his sword. Realising that he made a strange sight, he found a tea-stall further down the Imperial Way. Then he drank bowl after bowl, the hot tea failing to cool his fevered thoughts.

  Of course, others of his family had visited the capital before.

  Shih had lived here for over a decade after Father banished him. Most illustrious was Great-grandfather himself. But Yun Cai seemed too fabulous a personage for comparison.

  Guang blinked as he sipped another scalding cup. The leaves were bitter, over-brewed. Clearly the vendor had decided he was a gull flown in from the provinces, ripe to be plucked.

  Recollections of Shih made his forehead furrow. Guang could not forget their parting conversation – the accusation that Shih, not he, was Eldest Son. Those words had pursued Guang throughout the long journey to Linan. Intolerable thoughts he could not settle.

  His brother had used the word ‘pretend’. But how could he expect Guang to remember what had happened all those years ago? They had been seven, eight, surely no older. Who could remember things from their eighth year? Not clearly, at least, or honestly. One must discount many memories. Guang did not like to think how many. He gulped the hot tea. Then, quite unexpectedly, a name came back to him from their eighth year: Aunt Qin, like a ship emerging from dawn mists, Aunt Qin. . .

  Aunt Qin had always favoured Shih, he remembered that much, but it had not mattered to Guang because Father so obviously favoured him. And Father was Lord. Yet he did recollect envying his brother. When Aunt Qin walked and talked with Shih by Wei River she was full of tender enthusiasm for her faithful nephew. . .

  Guang gripped the hot cup tighter.

  Something had happened during his eighth year. A monsoon of endless rain. Three-Step-House filled with weeping. No one explained why – Mother, Aunt Qin, Shih, even the servants, all had seemed frightened. He remembered Father galloping to Chunming in the pouring rain, his face a mask of rage. When he returned a few days later, he summoned Guang and held out a high,
silk-embroidered hat.

  ‘This is yours,’ he said, examining his son strangely. ‘Wear it with pride.’

  Guang had seized the hat gladly, thinking how jealous Shih would be. No other child in Wei Valley possessed so fine a hat!

  Not that he wished Shih to be unhappy, but he had so many empty places to fill in his soul. When he placed the hat on his head it was too big and settled over his eyebrows.

  ‘There is more,’ continued Father. ‘You are forbidden to see Little Brother – if he is indeed your brother – ever again. He will be leaving soon. Then you must never mention or think of him, for he will never return. Never.’

  The eight year old boy detected hysteria in the way Father repeated that word. A hell of dishonour. And could not explain why.

  ‘Father,’ he stuttered. ‘It is I. . . I am Little Brother.’

  In an instant Father was towering over him, clutching him by the shoulders.

  ‘You are Eldest Son now, curse you!’ he roared, shaking Guang so hard that his teeth rattled. ‘Do not dare to disappoint me!’

  At last Guang broke free and fled to the room he shared with Shih. He expected to find his brother there. Instead a servant was hastily stuffing Shih’s clothes into hempen travelling sacks.

  ‘What are you stealing?’ he demanded, but the servant did not reply.

  When Guang tried to leave he found his way barred by their drunken Tutor of Characters.

  ‘Little Master Yun Guang must stay in his room,’ said the man, slyly.

  An hour passed, spent on games of chequers and drawing.

  The tutor customarily had no patience but today he was all moderation. Guang wondered at it, and wore his fine new hat.

  Here was something else to boast about when he met Shih again.

  The sound of Mother and Father arguing reached them from the Middle House. Guang froze in fear. He had never imagined such shrieking. Not from passive, gentle mother.