Ten thousand roosters greeted daybreak in the backyards and courts of Nancheng. For once the people were ahead of dawn.
Old, young, men and women of every class and trade were up early, woken by an excitement reminiscent of childhood, that time when nothing is wholly familiar or taken for granted. And Treading the Green was never without consequence: bungling the rites might displease influential ancestors and bring unthinkable consequences.
Shih was mindful of this as he dressed in the quarter-light before dawn. Cao snored in the bed beside him, her face at peace. She had grown stout since the children came, though their demands were enough to make anyone gaunt. Yet she rarely complained. He knew unspoken fears often besieged her – illness or accident sweeping away a precious life, losses too painful to be imagined. And sometimes he shared her anxious thoughts.
But now Guang had returned he felt nothing could go very wrong for their family. What had been broken was again whole. Shih wondered at their good fortune. A jealous, grasping desire occasionally made him scheme to keep Guang within Apricot Corner Court forever. Yet such feelings never lasted long. Was he to become Guang’s jailor as once he had been regarded by Father and poor Lu Ying?
Recollecting her brought Shih to the heart of his dilemma.
For he questioned the propriety of Guang’s intentions with regard to the dead lady. How would the ancestors regard her presence among them? Great-grandfather Yun Cai would surely greet her tolerantly. His faithful love for the singing girl Su Lin was still a matter of popular legend on account of his verses. Shih was less sure of the other ancestors. Grandfather had been notably stern when it came to unorthodox conduct.
As for Father. . . well, he hardly counted. When Shih imagined the ancestors gathered together, Father was always relegated to a corner where he sat in silence like a naughty, wilful child who has behaved very, very badly. That image fanned bright a glow of satisfaction until he recalled certain harsh words and questionable medicines forced down the old man’s throat –moments when he had behaved almost as badly as Father.
Treading the Green offered a chance to tame poison dragons and Shih was far too practical a man to let that chance pass.
Yet now Guang threatened disharmony with his absurd demands – and all the while Shih knew he could deny his brother nothing.
‘Are you unwell?’ asked a sleepy voice.
He turned to see Cao propped on one elbow, looking up at him. The light piercing through gaps in the paper curtain left half his face in shadow. He did not reply but glanced at the floor.
‘You are still troubled by Guang’s plan,’ she said.
‘On a day when the dead draw near, who can help painful feelings?’ he asked.
She reached out and took his hand.
‘They are always near,’ she said. ‘You may be sure they want us to be happy. Even Lord Yun desires that now.’
‘How do you know?’
‘Because we are the only future they have left. If we pass away their memory dies with us. Such things are well known.’
The hissing, staccato bangs of firecrackers startled them.
Shih ran a weary hand across his eyes. No need to say who had provided the children with fireworks.
‘Guang will make arsonists of them,’ he muttered, hurrying into the courtyard. ‘If he does not bankrupt us first by buying so much wine!’
Five penitent faces listened with downcast eyes as he admonished them for disturbing the neighbours’ peace. But after he had gone the children simply found a different game to play.
Two hours later the entire family – including Mung Po and Ibn Rashid’s Son – left Apricot Corner Court. Mung Po pushed a wheelbarrow laden with jars of wine and picnic food. It was the same wheelbarrow Shih and Cao had borrowed after her father’s death, repaired many times and as sturdy as ever.
Led by the two brothers they proceeded up North Canal Street. The whole city was streaming beyond the walls, sick of confinement and eager to tread the green of fresh spring grass, to listen with wonder to mating birds. However, the Yun clan followed an unconventional route. Instead of joining countless thousands heading for the fields surrounding the city they turned into Xue Alley and soon arrived at the Water Gate of Morning Radiance.
A guard waved them through and they emerged onto a narrow strip of land between the ramparts and the River Han
– the same place where Cao and Lu Ying had planted healing herbs. A little further downstream lay the rotting jetty where Shih had once recollected his enforced exile from Three-Step-House.
The base of a high, rectangular tower stood to one side; on the other spread endless li of water, twisting currents of shade and glitter, sinuous threads flowing all the way across the Middle Kingdom to swell rolling seas. For all its wild beauty –haunt of herons and wildflower, furze and butterfly – the strip of land was a strange place to tread the green. Indeed, the Yun clan had it quite to themselves.
Guang looked round while Mung Po and Ibn Rashid’s Son unloaded sticks to build a fire for boiling water.
‘When you told me we would be picnicking just outside the ramparts I did not anticipate this!’ he said.
Shih coughed apologetically.
‘When Father died the Mongols had just imposed new taxes on land purchase. I could not afford a plot of the best land, so I placed his gravestone here.’
‘I see.’
‘It occurred to me Father would like to be near water because he loved his fishes.’
‘Perhaps.’
‘Evidently you believe I was at fault!’ whispered Shih, aware the children might overhear. ‘But when Father died we were going hungry! My income dwindled along with everyone else’s, especially after the Relief Bureau closed. It was the best I could do!’
Or a final act of revenge against the old man, thought Guang. Yet he remained silent. What saddened him was that he had heard his nephews speaking disrespectfully about their own grandfather. He could not doubt who had taught them such attitudes.
‘We must make the best of it,’ said Guang. ‘When the time comes we shall restore Father’s tablet to the ancestral shrine above Three-Step-House.’
Shih laughed.
‘Do you still believe that time will come?’
‘Yes! And your sons must be taught to believe it! And their sons. Until what was lost has been restored.’
Guang’s voice echoed off the ramparts to the flowing river.
‘I’m sure you are right,’ said Shih.
They swept Lord Yun’s gravestone at the foot of the ramparts, burning incense and offering food. As they did so, all were relieved to see other clans arriving to honour dead relatives who had been buried beside the city walls. Yet the newcomers were a decidedly cheap crowd and Dr Shih – aware his ancestors were watching – was inclined to forbid his children from playing with their offspring. But Cao whispered in his ear and he relented. Though their clothes marked them out as superior, the Yun children were soon throwing sticks into the river and digging muddy canals alongside the sons and daughters of mere artisans.
Guang took Shih to one side. He had rapidly drunk half a flask of special ‘thrice-blessed’ wine (the blessing had come from a sorcerer selling lucky spells in the market) and appeared agitated.
‘I would like to do it now, Eldest Brother,’ he said.
Shih blinked at this formal title; Guang had rarely used it since his return.
‘As you wish.’ Shih took his brother’s arm. ‘Do you have the contract?’ he whispered.
A neatly rolled document appeared from Guang’s girdle.
‘Did you write it yourself?’ asked Shih.
‘No, I hired a scribe.’
‘Ah. That is always more. . .’ Shih struggled for the word.
‘Yes, proper.’
The two stood uncertainly, watching the children throw handfuls of mud at each other. Cao and Mung Po rushed forward and the air filled with blame and declarations of innocence.
‘Let’s do it while the
y’re busy,’ said Shih. ‘We need no other witnesses.’
They advanced across the thick grass to Father’s grave tablet, bowing as they went. Guang had already cleared the earth in preparation. Now he laid down a plain stone tablet bearing the characters for Lu Ying and naming her: First Wife of Yun Guang. A carving of an oriole, so crude one might easily have mistaken it for a crow or gull, had been attempted by the mason. Even that had strained Guang’s purse.
Once the tablet rested in the earth, Shih realised his brother had begun to sob and glanced round to see if the children had noticed. Guang’s was a painful, gasping way of crying; sorrow dragged out by cruel hooks. Shih placed an arm on his brother’s shoulder. Throughout these tears Cao’s querulous voice continued to nag the children, threatening that Big Eyes Yang would punish them with his terrible voice.
‘Burn the marriage contract now,’ urged Shih. ‘And remember to smile or her ghost will think you are not a happy groom.’
As though in a dream, Guang took the smouldering stick Shih fetched from the fire and lit the contract above Lu Ying’s new grave tablet. The flames spread along its length. He held it until his fingers were scorched then dropped the ashes onto the carved stone.
‘So you are now a widower,’ said Shih. ‘Lu Ying will clap with delight at the honour you show her.’
But Guang’s thoughts were in another time, so he did not reply. He glanced up at the blue sky and noticed an oriole skimming over the river. Golden wing feathers and a scarlet beak flashed in the sun. Then the bird landed with a light flutter on the battlements above them and, to his surprise, began a sweet, clear song of trilling notes, all the while dipping and raising its head, peering this way and that. Guang stared up, his lips parted. For half Lu Ying’s name meant oriole.
More tears gathered but he held them back. Shih was right, she must not see him weeping on their wedding day! Yet he longed to become a bird like her, to rise with her above the broad lands.
Still her song flowed as she crouched on the scarred stone of the fortifications. At last she fluttered golden wings one last time and flew upwards. Up, up until those she had known and loved were specks on a strip of land beside the flowing river.
Guang imagined that when she was truly high the Twin Cities themselves would diminish: Nancheng with its maze of streets and canals, its towers and decaying palace on Peacock Hill; Fouzhou where thousands toiled each day to rebuild what had been destroyed.
The oriole flew toward the sun rising over Mount Wadung and there he lost sight of her, blinded by white beams. He turned to tell Shih what had happened but found him gone. His brother had joined Cao in teaching the children how to identify and gather useful herbs – though it was quite obvious his real intention was to divert them from ruining their holiday clothes.
Guang shielded his eyes against the sun’s brightness and stared up at Mount Wadung. She must be far away by now. But he sensed the meaning of the song she had trilled on the battlements – or possible meanings, so many were plausible. Perhaps she meant to tell him that forbearance outlasts all empires; that all are granted little and much, or. . . oh, he hardly knew what.
Instead her lovely face filled his mind and he remembered her laughter and dignity as he lay wounded in Apricot Corner Court, the pleasing music of her voice. Her fragrance as she leant over him to straighten his pillow, and her sadness. Even when gay, she had retained a secret core of sadness.
In his very human ignorance he bowed to her grave tablet and wandered over to join his brother and sister-in-law. While Shih’s pedantic voice explained to the children how the ‘hidden rabbit root’ benefits one’s qi, not to mention yang, Guang drank the remaining half of his ‘thrice-blessed’ wine and watched the Han River wink a million silver eyes like fitful stars.
Author’s Note
As with the first volume of this trilogy, Taming Poison Dragons, all characters and places are fictional apart from the Imperial capital, Linan, now known as Hangchow. However, military historians will detect echoes of the epic siege of Xianyang in the geography and fate of Nancheng. They might also scratch their heads over the dates. If so, I would advise them to waste no more time. My chief concern in terms of accuracy is not chronology, but a convincing depiction of human nature while not succumbing to anachronisms. If readers find that faulty, the fault is mine. Mankind’s institutions, customs, culture and attitudes vary endlessly over the millennia, but I believe our essential humanity is more prone to continuity than change.
A note on gunpowder, invented by the Chinese in the 9th Century. Many might find the Song Dynasty’s gunpowder weapons scarcely believable, yet none are fictional: fire lance, thunderclap bomb (we might use the word ‘shrapnel’), rocket-propelled arrows. . . all were deployed to deadly effect. As were fleets of paddle-wheel warships.
Recently it has become popular to present history from the Mongol perspective in fiction. And why not – as long as one does not minimise the dreadful sufferings of those they slaughtered and the civilizations they permanently erased. They were not the first to believe destiny had granted them a right to conquer and rule the world. Sadly, they are not the last.
The third instalment of my trilogy, The Mandate of Heaven, will explore the Yun clan’s continuing story in Mongol-occupied China.
Acknowledgements
Thanks to everyone at Gregory and Company, especially Stephanie Glencross whose incisive editorial advice smoothed my way. Thanks again to those people generous enough to read and comment on early drafts of the novel: Richard Murgatroyd; my parents, Dori and Jim Murgatroyd; Alex Quigley (who deserves special thanks for some very useful suggestions); and, last but not least, Bob Horne. Thanks also to Craig Smith for his illuminating thoughts on the writer’s craft.
Gratitude and appreciation, as ever, to my wife Ruth for her tireless support and inspiration. Finally, many thanks to Ed Handyside for his sharp editorial eye and for making this book possible.
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