There was once a Taoist monk (I wondered who) traveling through the mountain passes. On this road he came upon six men bearing huge baskets of oranges on their backs. These, they said, were a gift to a high official in the court ofthe emperor from his younger brother, a magistrate in a minor southern province. The loads were very heavy and since the monk was alone and there were thieves known to be about, it was agreed that the monk would travel with them for protection and to help bear the loads.
He took the first basket and carried it for an hour. Then he gave it back and took the next and so on till all the loads had been shared. As each man resumed his task after an hour unencumbered:. he felt that the rest had been so beneficial that he now carried his load with greater ease as though it was lighter.
At last they came to a forking of the road where the monk returned the last basket and they parted company.
Several days later the high official, in an attempt to improve his status with the emperor, gave a great feast in his honor. It was a lavish event and only goods of the finest quality were prepared. At the end of the meal the fat oranges, a rare and expensive delicacy from the south, were brought out and laid before the emperor who dearly loved them. But when he lifted one it seemed oddly light, and when the skin was broken . . . there was nothing inside. Everyone was aghast, the official not the least of all. The emperor was not amused. Another orange was opened and another till it was discovered that all the oranges were nothing but empty skins. The steward was sent for and the larder examined only to find that the fruit in all six baskets was the same.
The bearers were then brought forward and charged upon pain of death to explain the mystery. They told of the Taoist monk and said he had surely used magic to steal the oranges and leave them only the skins.
Since the peasants who bore the fruit north were far too stupid to have conceived of such a skillful theft, the emperor was inclined to believe them. But rather than gaining his favor, as the official had hoped, he instead found his own stupidity rewarded with a reduced income and the government of a distant province in the north, far from the court and power. The magistrate in the south, having lost his older brother’s good graces, had also lost all hope of further advancement and privilege and counted himself lucky to have retained what he had.
Yuen Pao claimed to have been told the story by one of the bearers only a year or two before he found me, implying that all travelers in this land were suspect and monks most especially. Sometimes I wondered exactly how gullible he thought I was.
It was not yet mid-morning of the next day when they caught up with us, even though we had been prudent enough to stay off the road. There were eight armed men on horseback. Any argument would have been utter stupidity and, though we proceeded at a fast forced march, it was dusk before we reached the great gate of the town wall. Our belongings were confiscated and we spent the night in a hovel on the edge of town. By the smell and consistency of the floor it was a structure frequently used to house swine, which was a clear statement of what the magistrate thought of us.
Lan Lung, who had been in my pocket that morning, was gone. He had vanished, as was his habit when strangers were about. But this time, Yuen Pao said, he would not return. Lung has no love for men and their communities. When I naively suggested he might join us again on the road, Yuen Pao did not reply.
In the end, even I was acute enough to realize what a man seeking status would consider proper satisfaction for the affronted dignity of his emperor, though I still did not believe the business about the oranges. The fact that I had had nothing to do with anything was unimportant. By now the magistrate had heard all he required from the nearby villages. In his mind I would be an integral part of Hsu Yuen Pao and his Taoist magic.
There was no sleep that night. This time it was I who stood in the dark watching the lightning far to the south as the monsoons gathered at the coast and wondering about omens and dragons.
At dawn we were ushered out and made to stand waiting like penned sheep in the town square throughout the dismal gray morning and on into afternoon. Awaiting Pei Tae Kwan’s pleasure. Waiting to die at his leisure.
It was unclear to everyone, including myself, ifa ghost could be killed, though I had a pretty good notion by now. But as there was no answer, Pei Tae Kwan had willingly accepted for himself the honor of discovering the facts.
The executioner arrived well before noon and stood like a statue among his swords. A dozen guards, stoic and heavily armed, encircled us. Beyond them, curious villagers and bold little boys eyed us carefully, pointing and talking loudly. Old women peered between the shoulders of the guards and railed at us. Yuen Pao was unmoved by the abuse. I simply did not understand the dialect.
From time to time he would send a child or old woman scurrying away with an upraised hand and a few words. It seemed to occur to none of them that if his magic was really so potent we would not have remained the captives we were.
We were permitted to say little to each other, but in truth there was little to say. I was strangely calm. What my impatient nature would normally have considered a torturous wait was of little bother to me. I found myself thinking most about my little Lan Lung. Would he find another safe refuge now that my long fall seemed destined at last to shatter me at the foot of the wall?
Hsu Yuen Pao leaned upon the trunk of the one tree in the square and seemed as indifferent as I, though I will probably never know his reasons.
The murky overcast had grown dense and slate grey by early afternoon. The air was a sullen broth of humidity, and water droplets occasionally fell out of suspension, creating a fine mist. Though they threatened heavily, hanging low and pregnant overhead, the clouds did not open and drown us.
Pei Tae Kwan showed his face at last about mid-afternoon, making his way slowly down the street from the ornate monumental gate. The men in the drum towers signaled his approach and a wave of silence fell upon the villagers as he passed. He took his time quite deliberately and I had to admit it was finally beginning to get on my nerves.
Entering the armed circle he walked around slowly, looking us over with obvious contempt. When he spoke, the tone of his voice was unmistakable—insulting, berating, humiliating. Two servants who had followed him into the guarded circle now began rummaging through our belongings which had been dumped on the ground several feet away. They smashed our rice bowls under foot and broke our chopsticks, throwing the pieces in our faces. They opened the boxes and containers of Yuen Pao at the magistrate’s command, spilling the dust to show his contempt for us. We could not buy him. We had hardly expected to.
The boys opened the black lacquered container and spilled out the shards of variegated bone we had collected at the Dragon Gate. They broke the lid from the carved box of red cinnabar and emptied the pale yellow dust of ground dragon bones into the dirt, shouting and picking out small round rubies (petrified dragon blood Hsu Yuen Pao had called them).
Alarmed, the magistrate left us and took the gems from the boys, sending them out among the villagers. He laughed at Yuen Pao, placing the stones in a pocket of his gown, and called out mockingly as he kicked our belongings about. He spied the black scabbard and drew out the shining purple whisker which quivered in his hand like a stiff whip. There was silence for a moment, then more loud chatter. He bellowed, holding the prize aloft for all to see, and looked at Hsu Yuen Pao, his eyes alight with greedy triumph. He brandished it like a sword and advanced upon us, kicking my pack out of his way. I saw it moved aside by his foot with an odd jerk which seemed more like a lurch to my eye, and it suddenly began to writhe and swell on the ground.
At the collective cry from the crowd, Pei Tae Kwan turned and, seeing the churning from within the cloth, beat at it with the dragon whisker, then backed away and fled beyond the line of his guards as the bag swelled again.
Weapons drawn, the soldiers formed rank around the magistrate and one man sprang forward, striking a blow to the bag with his sword. There was a muffled sound like the distant toll
of a bell and the pack split to shreds as lung burst forth, growing to immense size in an instant. His serpentine body writhed, his tail lashing about, massive cowlike head high, four clawed forepaws slashing air. He was an explosion of silver and blue in the darkness of afternoon, fifty feet long. His voice was the booming of a gong. In the damp air his breath shone bright. Dragon fire played over his body. Beneath his chin was the great blue pearl of the sea, and upon his left shoulder was a long, ragged wound of red.
So rapidly did lung grow to his full, terrible size, that the soldier who had struck the blow was crushed beneath the scaled belly without even the time to scream. Then lung leapt, much as I had seen him do that first day in the bamboo grove. But now his body blotted out the sky, and when he landed amidst the terrified screams of the people, men died beneath his huge feet and thrashing tail. The living fled in panic—villagers, soldiers and dignitaries—but the magistrate Pei Tae Kwan, the dragon whisker still clutched in his hand, lay beneath the right forefoot of the great saurian, a foot-long claw imbedded in his chest.
The gong of his voice beat again and lung moved around the tree dragging the body of Pei a step or two before it dropped from his claw. I watched, numb but fascinated, only slowly becoming aware of a persistent tugging at my arm. When I looked at Yuen Pao, I was surprised to see the fear so plainly on his face, but I recognized it to be the fear of a prudent man. As the thunder began to rumble above and a hot wind came up at our backs, I looked once more at Lan Lung, my little pet, and realized the magnitude of my folly. This was no pet; had never been one. I, perhaps, had been his. This was Tsao Lung, a great scaled dragon, Lord of Rain, Ruler of Rivers, Commander of the Floods. The monsoons at our backs were under his control as were the clouds above our heads. He was deaf to the voice of man and paid no heed to the puniness of his life. Had I expected obedience from this creature? Affection? At that moment I would count myself lucky if he did not even notice me.
The town wall preventing retreat, the dragon between us and the street, Yuen Pao and I moved slowly about the tree, keeping it between us and the dragon as we maneuvered toward the door of the nearest house.
Lightning startled me and the dragon turned, watching us. His breath was a bright haze about his head and he favored his left leg. Out beyond the tree, the house seemed very far away. Behind the great reptilian body we could see a knot of people, the boldest of the curious, peering from the shelter of the memorial gate. The lightning and thunder came again and lung turned end to end, facing in our direction now. Body arched, head waving high, his voice boomed once more. Yuen Pao tensed beside me as my own muscles set for a bolt to the door, but there was no time to run. The dragon sprang in the air, his arc long and flat, looming even huger as he hurtled toward us.
My muscles jerked in an attempt to run, but I fell instead as the dragon dropped to the ground barely ten feet from me, twisting his head and body away to confront what I suddenly saw falling from the sky, and landing farther up the street. Another dragon, this one gold and orange. He was five-clawed and the pearl beneath his chin was the color of honey.
Sheltered behind the wall-like back of Lan Lung, we scrambled for the house, but as we moved, he moved, leaping away up the street. A moment later there was an ear-ringing crash of lightning, shattering the tree across the square barely a yard from the tip of his tail.
I thought of Yuen Pao’s story. Lan Lung, the lazy dragon. For desertion of his post and duty, Lung Wang would send messengers to seek him and, when found, would destroy him with lightning bolts.
The two dragons confronted each other, rearing on their hind legs, their breath at last turning to fire as the rain came. Their voices beat upon the ear and when they leapt to each other, the ground shook beneath their bodies. They changed size rapidly and often, looking for advantage. Scales as big as a man’s hand littered the street like fallen leaves as the dragons, red clawed, red fanged, rolled about in each other’s embrace. Lightning struck twice more, gouging the road and shattering the wall. The rain poured down in dark sheets till all that could be seen was the fiery glow of their bodies and breath. They could no longer be told apart.
Then, as Yuen Pao and I sheltered in the doorway of the house, the quaking earth stilled, the brightness diminished, and there came a great quiet beneath the beating of the rain.
Slowly, as the torrent thinned, a mountainous form could be seen lying in the street, motionless, fireless, and beyond it, burning faintly, another dragon stood, its head waving slowly in the air upturned to the clouds.
I wiped rain from my eyes, straining for a glimpse of color through the sheets of gray. I could not help but care. I had been his refuge till the end, even after I believed he had left me, and, in spite of all I had just seen, if he had scampered, mouse-sized, toward the door where I hid, I would have sheltered him again, foolish as it doubtless would have been. But in the thinning rain I could identify neither the dead dragon nor the live one.
Then the final bolt of lightning struck.
Hours later, when the rain stopped, there was not so much as a splintered bone in the muddy, cratered street. But beneath the blasted tree Yuen Pao found one large round scale of silver scalloped in blue. I wear it on a braided cord about my neck like an amulet. It marks me, though that is hardly necessary these days. Word of mouth travels swiftly in this land. The villagers saw from whence the dragon came. They knew whose pack it was. It was never established whether or not a ghost could die a second death (and I am still not sure about the oranges), but no one questioned the power of ghostly magic. It has been mainly to my advantage, I suppose; only occasionally have I resented it. I wear the reputation as I wear my “amulet” and the name the people gave me.
I am called Lung Gwai.
The Dragon Ghost.
Here is a dragon with a very different problem than Lucie Chin’s Lan Lung. RICHARD L. WEXELBLAT, author of the definitive History of Programming Languages, is a mathematical genius who writes delightful verse in his scant spare time.
The Dragon Over Hackensack
By Richard L. Wexelblat
Unexpectedly a red dragon appeared over Hackensack NJ
One late winter afternoon.
Two F-104s of the New Jersey Air National Guard scrambled to
meet it.
In a move surprising to some observers,
Though not all,
The dragon breathed a stream of fire . . .
That completely missed the planes
But incinerated: an empty wooden water tower on the Bijou,
a billboard that used to blow smoke rings,
and the ABC Action-Cam hot air balloon.
One F-104 attacked with 105mm cannon,
The other with Sidewinder heat-seeking missiles.
Of course, the cannon shells bounced off of the dragon’s scales.
The Sidewinders missed and eventually fell to earth in the
Great Swamp, just missing a deer on the runway of
Morristown Airport.
The dragon, flattered or annoyed by all this attention,
Reversed course and flew off
Out of sight In the direction of Long Island,
Pausing only to eat the top 50 feet
Off the leftmost of the two World Trade center Towers.
The Pentagon ignored the report on the incident.
MARY SHELLEY wrote many fantastic novels and stories, but she is best known for Frankenstein, written in friendly competition with Lord Byron, John Polidori and of course Mary’s husband, the poet Percy Bysshe Shelley, a Byronic hero-demon who dominated his wife with an influence both inspiring and vampiric. When Mary wrote “The Transformation” in 1831, she was thirty-four. Percy had been dead for nearly a decade, yet his equivocal personality still possessed her, as reflected in the character of the narrator of this bizarre tale, a weak person with a great capacity to do either good or evil. The denouement seems to suggest that the author still could not abandon all hope that her late husband’s soul was magnific
ent, at least in its potential for virtue. Though she died twenty years later in 1851, it is unlikely that Mary ever exorcised her great angel-fiend.
The Transformation
By Mary W. Shelley
“Forthwith this frame of mine was wrenched
With a woful agony,
Which forced me to begin my tale;
And then it left me free.
“Since then, at an uncertain hour,
That agony returns:
And till my ghastly tale is told,
This heart within me burns.”
—SAMUEL TAYLOR COLERIDGE
“The Ancient Mariner”
I have heard it said, that, when any strange, supernatural, and necromantic adventure has occurred to a human being, that being, however desirous he may be to conceal the same, feels at certain periods torn up as it were by an intellectual earthquake, and is forced to bare the inner depths of his spirit to another. I am a witness of the truth of this. I have dearly sworn to myself never to reveal to human ears the horrors to which I once, in excess of fiendly pride, delivered myself over. The holy man who heard my confession, and reconciled me to the Church, is dead. None knows that once—
Why should it not be thus? Why tell a tale of impious tempting of Providence, and soul-subduing humiliation? Why? answer me, ye who are wise in the secrets of human nature! I only know that so it is; and in spite of strong resolve,—of a pride that too much masters me—of shame, and even of fear, so to render myself odious to my species,—I must speak.
Genoa! my birthplace—proud city! looking upon the blue Mediterranean—dost thou remember me in my boyhood, when thy cliffs and promontories, thy bright sky and gay vineyards, were my world? Happy time? when to the young heart the narrow-bounded universe, which leaves, by its very limitation, free scope to the imagination, enchains our physical energies, and, sole period in our lives, innocence and enjoyment are united. Yet, who can look back to childhood, and not remember its sorrows and its harrowing fears? I was born with the most imperious, haughty, tameless spirit. I quailed before my father only; and he, generous and noble, but capricious and tyrannical, at once fostered and checked the wild impetuosity of my character, making obedience necessary, but inspiring no respect for the motives which guided his commands. To be a man, free, independent; or, in better words, insolent and domineering, was the hope and prayer of my rebel heart.
Masterpieces of Terror and the Supernatural Page 14