The Mandate of Heaven

  ‘Rebels,’ she whispered, ‘spies in the city.’

  He joined a small crowd gathered round a poster beside the bridge, discussing a crude picture of a grossly fat man reminiscent of Lord Buddha and the words: Beware traitors! Beware bandits! Beware Liu Shui, notorious Red Turban and Yueh Fei bandit! Beware the despicable brigand known as Hornets’ Nest! A reward was offered, large enough to buy a dozen farms.

  Teng looked round guiltily. He had no illusions where the fat Liu Shui was hiding at this very moment. How could Father be so reckless? To take such a risk after all their years of caution?

  A low bell tolled across the city. The Third Hour of daylight: surely the fleet would not delay. He must hurry.

  None of the soldiers questioned him as he crossed the bridge. Fog was dispersing beneath a feeble sun when he reached the harbour. A gloomy day was commencing, heavy with drudgery and tedium for thousands in the Port District. For others, a day that would end their future.

  The Red Turban prisoners had been chained together in groups of ten, their defiance choked by bulging wooden neck yokes. Most were barefoot and in rags. Nearly four hundred prisoners waited on the wharf for transportation to the Salt Pans. Of those, half would be lucky to last a year.

  Many soldiers had gathered to ensure the embarkation went smoothly. This was less straightforward than it seemed. In the winter dry season water levels on the lake fell and one could only berth large junks at the end of long wooden jetties projecting into the water. In between lay fetid, clinging mud, pecked by white birds.

  As Teng drew near, a unit of ten prisoners staggered up the wooden jetty, scrutinised by a huddle of officials. After a suitable pause, another ten followed. A crowd of on-lookers had also gathered, held back by spearmen from Prince Arslan’s garrison. Teng slipped between longshoremen and merchants until he reached the front, where immediately he spotted Hsiung.

  The servant boy lurked near the jetty among the Salt Minister’s motley bodyguard, crouching between two large trunks. He had hidden himself behind Sergeant P’ao’s broad back.

  Salt Minister Gui had been honoured with supervising the embarkation of the prisoners. His silken robes declared fitness for high responsibility, his demeanour a proper contempt for lesser creatures. Yet he seemed oddly distracted, overly absorbed by his abacus. The loading was going well: already three-quarters of the prisoners had shuffled aboard the merchant junks.

  Teng wondered how to attract his friend’s attention. Hsiung stared constantly at the ground to avoid the Salt Minister’s notice. He wore a peasant’s wide, conical straw hat to hide his face. Calling out to him would be dangerous. The wharf was silent except for the clank of chains and scrape of feet, punctuated by harsh commands.

  At that moment came the trotting of many iron-shod hooves and the rumble of wheels. The crowd parted in alarm as a black stallion pranced across the cobbles, its rump flicked playfully by a riding whip. An exceptionally sleek and handsome nobleman drove the beast forward. A name flitted round the wharf: Jebe Khoja! Jebe Khoja!

  The rider caught sight of Gui and changed direction. Despite the muddy ground, officials fell to their knees. Yet the Salt Minister was slower than his fellows. He stared past his master at a cavalcade of litters and carriages bumping into the square.

  In the lead came Jebe Khoja’s personal carriage, gilded and lacquered, laden with revellers. Its occupants made no effort to conceal themselves. Within lolled half a dozen beauties, peeping out excitedly, their faces white with make-up, fans fluttering like agitated butterfly wings. Among them, to Teng’s great surprise, sat his former neighbour, Golden Lotus. Though innocent for his age, Teng sensed the significance of his presence among the courtesans.

  Salt Minister Gui surely did, too, for he remained upright to greet his master. Now the silence on the wharf was complete. Everyone watched the two men. Jebe Khoja leaned forward in his saddle, pointed the whip and spoke sharply. Casting a baffled glance at the carriage, Gui finally lowered himself to his knees.

  Jebe Khoja trotted over to the remaining prisoners and examined them from his horse. Satisfied, he cantered back to the still kneeling Gui and spoke words of praise. Then he trotted back to his carriage and leaned down from the saddle, murmuring to the ladies inside. Whatever he said provoked a flurry of fans.

  Once more the cavalcade proceeded on its way – carriages of acrobats, singing girls, yes-sayers and hangers-on – as well as scores of noble Mongol lords and wealthy Chinese merchants, all bound for a picnic and entertainment to celebrate Jebe Khoja’s triumph over the Red Turban rebels. Even now the Pleasure Gardens attached to Golden Bright Monastery were in readiness, pavilions heated by braziers, fire-pits roasting every kind of meat, four-legged and fowl, fish and lake dolphin. Tracks had been marked out for the racing of horses and other feats of skill.

  Teng glanced at Gui. The Salt Minister’s abacus had reappeared in his hands. He seemed lost, as though calculating an impossible sum.

  No one spoke or moved until Jebe Khoja had left and the rumble of wheels died away. Abruptly the silence was broken by a mocking laugh, almost a croak. It came from one of the prisoners: ‘Look who’s riding the Salt Minister’s yellow eel boy!’

  A jeer followed from someone hidden in the crowd. Soon dozens were hooting, whistling and calling out Gui’s name. The Salt Minister rose to his feet, blinking at his persecutors.

  He ordered Sergeant P’ao to drag out the prisoner who had spoken. A savage beating commenced. All laughter ceased. The officers leading Prince Arslan’s soldiers grew uneasy. Sensing the possibility of a riot, they gathered their men round the remaining Red Turbans awaiting embarkation. Others levelled crossbows at the crowd.

  By now the beaten man’s face was mangled, his nose a bloody hole. Gui’s fishy eyes stared round and spotted Hsiung amidst the baggage. For a moment there was partial recognition. His expression darkened slowly. The boy’s face connected him to another wayward possession: his disobedient daughter, Yun Shu.

  ‘What is that b-boy doing here?’ he demanded.

  Teng did not hear Sergeant P’ao’s muttered reply.

  ‘How do you know he is not a spy?’ asked Gui, excitedly. ‘His family are tainted with treachery! Take away the one you’ve punished and put this b-boy in his place.’

  For a moment it seemed Sergeant P’ao might refuse. Then, with a lowered head, he ordered his men to seize Hsiung.

  Teng could barely stir for trembling. Oh, he must not just stand there! He should find a sword and cut his friend free! Capture a horse and gallop into the hills! He watched in horror as Hsiung was chained to another prisoner. Meanwhile the broken body of the man he replaced had been thrown off the jetty to drown in the lake mud.

  Hsiung struggled against his new bindings until a sharp command from Sergeant P’ao stopped him. The boy gazed beseechingly into his protector’s face. Sergeant P’ao whispered urgently in the boy’s ear then moved away to chivvy the last groups of prisoners onto the jetty, his expression unreadable.

  Perhaps madness made Teng reckless. Despite his fear, he stepped out of the crowd, first one, then two and a third pace forward. It was not too late. Confucius taught that a good man always admonishes the wicked, whatever the cost to himself. He could yet protest to the Salt Minister that Hsiung was no spy. He would speak out! It was his family’s destiny to risk everything for duty. That was the path Grandfather had chosen, the noble path of Yueh Fei. Yet Teng, longing to speak, could only shiver, miserably exposed before the crowd, his head bowed, hands clenched.

  Finally his agitation attracted the Minister of Salt’s attention. Gui stared, recognising him as his unworthy daughter’s other confederate. This realisation broke what little courage Teng possessed. He slunk back and disappeared into the crowd, dodging between tall legs. The cruel hands he anticipated, determined to clutch, hold, hurt never came. Soon he had escaped into the busy streets of the Port District where few noticed a hurrying boy.

  Teng did not flee to Deng Mansions. Home wa
s no longer safe since Liu Shui’s arrival – and he feared leading an angry Salt Minister Gui to Father’s door.

  Up the Hundred Stairs he scrambled, chest heaving, dragging himself with his hands. Past the brassbound gates of Cloud Abode Monastery and into the bamboo groves. At once the city seemed far away. He was protected by a maze of delicate stems, shadows, pale winter sunbeams slanting across stone and moss. His pace slowed. Then grief began: images of Hsiung in chains, bound to misery and ceaseless toil forever.

  Deeper, deeper into the woods, his steps directed by fate or chance, until he found himself outside the ruined watchtower, its ancient walls besieged by bushes and brambles. For a long moment he dared not enter. This cursed place was the source of all their troubles. But that was why he must enter, at least one more time, to face the hungry ghosts trapped inside.

  Wriggling through the crawl-way, now almost completely overgrown, he entered the rectangle of smoke-blackened stone. It had not changed since the spring, except the bones they had patiently buried were more visible than ever. Not a trace remained of the dead dog. Teng realised he was shivering. How did bones always rise to the surface? However carefully one laid them to rest, they broke through the earth like shoots in springtime, seeking a little more life, greedy for the sun.

  As he wept silently for Hsiung, gazing out across the grey, still waters of the lake, a large merchant junk rounded the headland from the harbour, followed by another and another. The fleet had set sail for the Salt Pans. Nothing could restore his friend to Deng Mansions.

  Teng crept to the very edge of the cliff, examining each ship in turn for the smallest sign of Hsiung. But the slaves were a huddled mass in the open hold.

  Soon the last ship had passed; the fleet manoeuvred into a loose diamond formation, their stiff bamboo sails hoisted. For a long while, Teng watched them dwindle into the distant haze of the horizon. He thought of Yun Shu, how he had seen her borne away in a wagon of servants, as much a prisoner as Hsiung. Of the three friends – pine, bamboo and plum – only he remained free.

  Part Two

  Hornets’ Nest

  Six-hundred-li Lake, Central China.

  Winter, 1314

  Eight

  Yun Shu pondered her next incarnation as she climbed a steep dirt track beside the sluggish Min River. When summer brought the monsoon these placid waters would froth: for now, the winter dry season lingered.

  It was a way little-travelled, especially since rebel bands had settled in the district. Fishermen in the port of Yulan, where she had disembarked from a merchant junk carrying salt fish and hemp, had warned her to beware brigands.

  ‘Surely they will not trouble a Nun of Serene Perfection?’ she had asked, her eyes wide. Though life had taught her to trust nothing and no one she was a forgetful student.

  The fishermen had grinned as they examined the young nun. Yun Shu’s hand rose unconsciously to straighten her topknot, flowing in the style of ‘whirlwind clouds’ and held in place by a modest bone comb. Her blue quilted robe hugged her figure against the chilly weather. She wore a nun’s large yellow kerchief round her slender neck. A conical straw hat hung beside a blue satchel containing scriptures and the Seven Treasures she had been given to sustain her journey. Gifts for the spirit as well as body: the two flowed through each other like cloud through air.

  One by one the fishermen looked away to hide their amusement.

  ‘Let’s just say they might trouble you, Little Aunty,’ said the eldest. ‘And up there …’ He had gestured at the Bamboo Hills rising toward the distant slopes of Changshan, the Holy Mountain. ‘Up there,’ he had repeated more forcefully, ‘only the gibbons and tigers will hear you cry for help.’

  Yun Shu pursed plump lips, then bowed gratefully, ‘You are kind,’ she said, ‘but I have an amulet that will certainly protect me.’

  This seemed to reassure them, as well it might, coming from a Serene One.

  ‘Nevertheless,’ said the old fisherman, ‘I’ll send my sons up with fresh fish after the New Year. Just to see how Little Aunty is faring.’

  A comforting thought as she climbed the lonely path into the hills.

  The road followed the course of the river for many li, climbing through limestone ravines clad with moss and trailing vines. The hill country brooded in winter silence. There was no breeze, though the lake was famous for its winds. Bamboo hung motionless, leaves dry and yellow as withered fingers.

  Yun Shu paused to drink from the icy waters of a pool – one of many formed by the river. She smelled wood smoke and recalled the warning about brigands.

  Yet the smoke heralded the end of her journey: as Yun Shu emerged from a narrow, winding ravine onto a path above the river, she caught her first glimpse of Mirror Lake.

  It filled a long, tear-shaped depression in the hills. The reason for its name was obvious. As the sun sank, ribbons of fire shimmered across the silvery surface. Pine trees and bamboo were reflected on the water. Any clouds passing high above could gaze down on their own image.

  Tears welled, though Yun Shu had taught herself to never cry in public. A deep quiver ran through her: it was so long since she had felt even an approximation of joy. She savoured and gulped it like water after a parched journey. Then Yun Shu understood that Mirror Lake might reveal everything she needed to cleanse old wounds, however shameful.

  She hastened along the shore path until her final destination came into view – and with it the wood smoke’s source.

  No one knew how long Sitting-and-Whistling Pavilion had perched on the small, rocky island jutting out of Mirror Lake. Since before the Tang Dynasty, certainly. For centuries, any novice seeking to become a Serene One at Cloud Abode Monastery had been sent up here for an extended period of meditation. Here she might renounce foulness and confusion, purify herself through the prescribed rituals and generally maintain the shrine.

  Sitting-and-Whistling Pavilion certainly needed maintenance. As Yun Shu drew near, she noticed how the wooden building leaned slightly. It was the size of a large barn. At the front ornate pillars propped up a curving roof of red clay tiles; at the rear were tiny rooms for visitors. A causeway of stepping stones led to the island, otherwise one could easily wade, for the lake was deep only in purity.

  A flutter of smoke rose from the rooms at the back. Yun Shu stepped across the stones and followed a path round the outside of the shrine. Within she glimpsed glinting eyes and squat shapes: holy images, best greeted for the first time in daylight.

  Round the back were two wooden cells and a covered porch where a fire smouldered in a cooking hearth of soot-stained bricks. A quick search revealed that whoever built the fire was no longer on the small island.

  Exhausted from her long walk, Yun Shu slumped by the hearth. The night was cold and she wrapped herself in a blanket, feeding the flames with twigs. The bamboo groves whispered as the night breeze quickened. She could hear the calls of owls and apes, and – far away, she prayed – the triumphant roar of a tiger. Infinities of darkness stretched beyond comprehension, lent shape and meaning by glittering constellations.

  Yun Shu knew that one day she might visit those same stars, the Immortals’ realm, if she could only transform herself and join the eternal Dao. Then those who had mocked and hurt and rejected and injured her would gaze up in wonder. Yet she would be too rapt on her journey upon a floating cloud, up, up, into Perfection, to even recall their names.

  Another, more urgent part of her desired only a friendly voice and face. Yun Shu tried to imagine that such a person sat beside her. Unexpectedly, for she seldom cared to recall childhood, a tousle-haired earnest boy chanting a gloomy poem materialised in her mind. With him, a brooding lad too tall and broad for his age, leaning on a bamboo sword.

  Hungry and cold as she was, memories eased her to a deep, dreamless sleep. The glowing embers of the fire dwindled into lifeless grey ash in the hearth.

  A few days brought the New Year festival, the first she had ever spent alone. Yet Yun Shu was not trul
y alone. Clay statues of Immortals and gods surrounded her as she swept the shrine room of the Pavilion: kindly demon officials from the other world; fierce guardians with curved scimitars and angry red eyes. She scrubbed the floor with freezing water from the lake and polished the woodwork with lamp oil. At the prescribed hour she lit lamps and chanted from the sacred books.

  On New Year’s morning the temple was cleaner than it had been for many months. Yun Shu knelt before the image of Lord Lao, rubbing a shine into his lacquered feet. Then she sensed someone in the doorway.

  Turning quickly, she found a young girl peeping round the doorframe. She wore peasant clothing and had a gay, mischievous air.

  ‘Are you the new Aunty?’ demanded the girl. ‘They said you were young and pretty.’

  Yun Shu rose, brushing her knees. She refrained from asking who they might be.

  ‘Now you are here, people will come to pray again,’ said the girl.

  ‘That would please Lord Lao very much,’ said Yun Shu.

  ‘Unless it’s Hornets’ Nest and his men,’ whispered the girl.

  ‘Hornets’ Nest? What a funny name! Who is he?’

  ‘You know,’ said the girl. She hid a nervous giggle behind her hands, then made a buzzing noise. ‘Grandma told me to bring you this. She has too many aches to come herself. Poor Grandma!’

  The girl slid a large reed basket into the shrine with her foot.

  ‘You can step inside, you know,’ said Yun Shu. ‘Lord Lao wouldn’t be cross – and neither would I.’

  She was answered by another giggle, hidden behind small hands.

  ‘Grandma says it’s unlucky here after what happened to the last Aunty. Watch out for Hornets’ Nest!’

  With that, the little girl vanished and, though Yun Shu called after her, she hopped away over the stepping-stones, disappearing into the bamboo groves.