The Mandate of Heaven

  Both were received in Deng Nan-shi’s library where the old scholar lay on a mouldy divan. Afterwards, while Lady Lu Si prepared cordials for the invalid, Teng led Yun Shu outside.

  ‘My father is quite exhausted,’ he burst out. ‘What folly to distribute food in starving Hou-ming without an escort of troops! Thank Heaven that Tibetan fool distracted everyone. If he had not, the crowd would have surged forward and overwhelmed you, then a riot would have broken out!’

  Yun Shu’s blush contained pale spots that were far from serene. ‘Yet again you wilfully misunderstand. Really, I wonder how you did not inherit your noble father’s wisdom.’

  A bitter retort formed until the obviousness of her distress silenced him.

  ‘You must learn from this,’ he said, more gently. ‘You are too cavalier with your own safety. Think of the distress if you were harmed! What possessed you to take such a risk?’ He fell silent, as though too much had been said.

  ‘Duty towards less fortunate creatures than one’s self,’ she said, ‘that is what. But I have learned from today, Teng! And I mean to set up my cauldrons every morning. Worthy Master Jian has offered two sacks of rice a day for the purpose. He is a good, kind, generous man.’

  At this Teng grew cooler. ‘I’m glad you find him so,’ he said. ‘You realise he hopes to counter the Buddhists’ distribution of free grain, don’t you?’

  Her guileless, naïve expression answered that question.

  ‘Why you of all people?’ he mused. Then he glanced at her sharply. ‘Do such good works increase your inner store of ch’i energy, swell your life force?’

  ‘Of course. Concern for all living creatures mirrors the kindness of the Dao itself.’

  ‘I see,’ he said. ‘And is this something to do with your journeys in covered carriages and barges at night?’

  It was a wild shot. Yet it hit the very centre, for her blush became one of alarm.

  ‘You must not refer to that,’ she whispered, ‘it is a great secret!’

  ‘If I notice, others will. It’s almost like you have regular assignations.’

  The extent of her distress surprised him. As did the realisation he was absurdly jealous.

  ‘Will you ever stop taunting me?’ she cried. ‘Once I hoped you would be a sensible friend. The Elder Brother I lack! I have so much need of kindly advice!’

  This cut his next witticism short. ‘I apologise, Yun Shu,’ he said. ‘Of course your charity is worthwhile. A hundred hungry families will sleep better for your work.’

  Lady Lu Si emerged from the library. She examined the Abbess’s flushed, animated face.

  ‘Thank you for your assistance today, Honourable Deng Teng,’ said Yun Shu in a brittle voice that strove for detachment.

  Teng watched as she marched off to the gatehouse, her shoulders slightly hunched, pursued by a curious Lady Lu Si.

  That night, a hot wind ruffled the lake, blowing from the lustful south. Teng found himself in Ying-ge’s boudoir in a large merchant’s house and compound turned over to peach-red women. Her suite of rooms overlooked a small inner courtyard with a pond of water lilies and indolent carp.

  The door had been slid open to let in the night breeze and he lounged on a wide, low bed, looking at the pond. Though he had hoped for gaiety and pleasure, his union with Ying-ge had disappointed them both. She lay naked beside him, watching his expression. Then she yawned and rolled over, revealing smooth breasts and skin, the fragrant moss beneath her flat stomach. Still he did not notice her. Now she rolled onto her front, propping her chin in cupped hands.

  ‘You usually have pretty things to say to me,’ she complained.

  He looked at her in surprise. ‘Do I?’

  ‘Yes. And you usually love to hear me talk.’

  ‘But I still do.’

  She pursed her lips and yawned again. Once more they were silent. When it became uncomfortable he said: ‘What is it you want to talk about?’

  Now Ying-ge was less sure. They had already gossiped about the theatre, already praised her new silk dress, a present from another admirer, and one she clearly expected him to match, if not surpass.

  ‘You seem to have so much cash these days,’ she said, wistfully. ‘Where do you get it all?’

  That was one topic of conversation he was reluctant to explore, though she pressed him for an answer by remarking how clever he must be and then how everyone was curious. Finally her eyes widened at a novel idea.

  ‘You scholars are all poets,’ she said. ‘Well then, praise my beauty!’

  She rolled over and rested her cheek on one hand, the other playfully adjusting a lock of her hair.

  ‘Your beauty?’ he said, in a distant voice, distracted by recollections of Yun Shu’s foolish bravery that morning. Ying-ge’s coquettish expression hardened.

  ‘You don’t notice me,’ she said, pouting.

  ‘Not at all!’ protested Teng, reaching out to touch her hand. She sullenly pulled it away. ‘It’s just that I’m thinking,’ he said, ‘that the valley between your jade mountains would entice any traveller.’

  She considered this for a moment, examining her own chest.

  ‘What of my face?’ she demanded, angling it towards him.

  ‘Oh, oval as a phoenix egg.’

  The compliment seemed to mollify her slightly.

  ‘And my eyebrows?’

  ‘I see willow leaves … and your mouth is as small as a fish’s’

  ‘What kind of fish?’

  ‘Oh, a carp, for you are always seeking profit wherever you can find it.’

  ‘Ah!’ Now she tapped him playfully on the arm. ‘I like that!’

  ‘I thought you would.’

  ‘And my lips?’

  ‘Cherries – and as for your teeth, pomegranate seeds.’

  Here he was lying, as no doubt a woman possessing as many bronze mirrors as Ying-ge knew well. Her teeth were small, pointed and uneven.

  ‘I like you now,’ she said, invitingly.

  But Teng had risen. Pulling a dressing gown over his naked body he went over to the wine flasks and poured a bowl. Behind him Ying-ge’s willow eyebrows rose in scorn: pouring wine was her work. But he had ceased to consider Ying-ge. Her vanity, though natural in a woman, bored him. Again he thought of Yun Shu and wondered if the curtained carriage had called for her tonight.

  ‘A strange thing happened at the foot of Monkey Hat Hill today,’ he said.

  ‘Horrid, overgrown place full of ghosts!’ she retorted, for Ying-ge didn’t like her lover living in an unfashionable part of town in case it reflected badly on herself.

  He told the tale of the cauldrons and starving people, concluding with his fears that a hungry crowd would mob Abbess Yun Shu if she was not careful.

  ‘It is disgraceful,’ he continued. ‘Merchants manipulate the market for grain so their profits are bloated. They bribe officials to turn a blind eye who, in turn, bribe princes and court nobles. Thus the price of rice doubles and millet trebles!’

  A loud yawn interrupted him.

  ‘Who cares what happens to miserable poor people and their ugly old Aunty,’ said Ying-ge. Suddenly she became suspicious. ‘Of course! I have heard of this Abbess. She is young and pretty!’

  Now Teng felt uncomfortable and wished he hadn’t mentioned Yun Shu. Another bowl of wine went down quickly.

  ‘I knew her when we were both children, that is all,’ he said. ‘She was a kind of sister to me for a while. Then there was a great misunderstanding between us.’

  Ying-ge’s icy laugh tinkled.

  ‘Just a sister?’ she asked, archly. ‘I didn’t think that was your style.’

  ‘Actually, I honour that lady a great deal. Though, at times, she is the most vexing creature in the world.’

  He poured and downed another cup. It was strong rice wine and his head span a little. Then he chuckled. ‘She is the most quick-witted woman of my acquaintance – not that the sharpness of her tongue isn’t provoking.’

  E
ven in his drunken state Teng became aware Ying-ge was sobbing. Or appeared to be.

  ‘I can see you do not love me at all!’ said the girl, dabbing her eyes with a handkerchief. ‘It is this ugly Aunty you love!’

  Teng suddenly wished himself back in Deng Mansions. Her words disturbed him in a way he blamed on the wine. What nonsense filled women’s heads! Sitting down heavily beside Ying-ge, he took her hands and kissed them.

  ‘You fill my eyes!’ he protested.

  ‘I don’t,’ she sniffed, ‘it’s her, that horrid Nun who fills your eyes.’

  Eventually he soothed her. Between them the cock phoenix danced and the hen flew loudly for a long while.

  Teng was woken at dawn by a persistent tapping on the door. A maid finally gained his attention and led him to Ying-ge’s tiny reception room where a male visitor waited on a low, padded chair. He examined Teng’s half-dressed state and grunted.

  ‘Chasing quails who sell their feathers again,’ remarked Shensi.

  Teng sat down opposite his friend.

  ‘What is it, Shensi? Has Father’s illness worsened?’

  The tomb-finder pursed his lips. ‘Good news for a change.’

  He told an interesting story. First he reminded Teng that their chief customer, Salt Minister Gui, believed he was acting as a broker for an old, impoverished noble family, so desperate they were parting with their greatest treasures. Abruptly, Shensi went quiet and looked round the small room.

  ‘Don’t worry,’ said Teng, ‘it’s safe to talk freely. Ying-ge can’t hear.’

  ‘Then I will. Last night our friend Gui summoned me with an offer. It seems he has customers at the court who will pay a fortune for paintings of horses. And he needs lots of cash to send to his sons in the capital. The Mongol princes are vying for the best horse paintings, especially by Han Kan and Li Lung-mien. Of course I told him we could provide both.’

  ‘Was that wise?’ asked Teng. ‘Gui isn’t a complete fool.’

  ‘Ah, but he’s greedy, said Shensi, ‘that can make the cleverest man foolish.’

  Still Teng doubted. The same might be said of themselves.

  ‘So I’m to produce a painting by Han Kun – not too hard, by the way – and one by Li Lung-mien, which is a far greater challenge. When by?’

  ‘I said a week.’

  ‘A week!’

  ‘Maybe two.’

  Teng scratched his legs through the bed robe, picturing prints and copies of Han Kun in the Deng library. They were in poor condition but usable.

  ‘Very well, but these are the last forgeries I will undertake. Never ask me again. This time I mean it.’

  Was it Father’s willingness to risk anything for the public good, as he had yesterday? Or did Yun Shu’s purity lurk behind his vow? Teng could not be sure, but the decision brought an inner calm that had eluded him for months.

  ‘You won’t need to do it again,’ said Shensi, wolfishly. ‘Our good friend the Salt Minister is offering thousands, which can only mean he stands to make thousands more by selling them.’

  When Teng returned to Ying-ge’s boudoir he found her yawning extravagantly as though she had woken that very moment. Yet he caught an oddly alert glitter in her eyes and wondered, quite unworthily, whether she had spied on his conversation with Shensi.

  As Teng commenced his work he realised any art – music, words, brush strokes – was a story of stages …

  First the flow of an inspired hand, copying ancient models in accordance to the Sixth Principle of Hsieh Ho. One must learn by example, revere the Great Masters …

  Mid-morning light pooled in the centre of Teng’s shabby studio, illuminating examples by Han Kun studied and rehearsed in small parts – that flying hoof twenty times over and flaring nostril a dozen times. So often he no longer referred to them. He became Han Kun, revelling in the master’s glory, always mourning his own inferiority …

  Even as he executed the boldest strokes, Teng sensed ch’i energy running as ink-sap through his hand, breathing out forms on paper …

  Standing back, examining the painting for its adherence to Hsieh Ho’s Third Principle. But if the horse lacked fidelity then surely he, Teng, could not be blamed when the depiction so closely – no, he could flatter himself, exactly – mirrored Han Kun’s own.

  With Li Lung-mien’s horse the transformation required a great letting go of self, a drive to nullity. Teng remembered how a Daoist told the painter that if he continued painting so many horses he would become one himself. Teng spent days watching horses in the city and dreaming about the quiver of their sweating flanks, twitching tails, wind-stirred manes, the expressive emptiness of their eyes …

  False starts and trials! Always Li Lung-mien’s genius fled before him like a ghost, held momentarily then slipping through the hairs of his brush. Hsieh Ho’s Second Principle spoke of a painter’s bone, the strength of his brush stroke, and through this Teng gained the key. As afternoon light glowed and faded he painted a dappled tribute horse on faded brown paper, exactly matching Li Lung-mien’s precisely broad style. Finally, tentatively, almost fearfully lest he mar so perfect a replica, Teng applied the seals and colophons in red ink he had created by carving on wax. Each was exact. How fine a mimic he had become!

  A flask of wine. More pacing round his mockery of Li Lung-mien. In disgust at his persistent dishonesty, Teng altered the final seal of ownership so it attested the painting once belonged to the rebel hero Yueh Fei, aware such an ownership clashed with dates set out in the other seals. No matter. The Mongols were too stupid to notice subtleties. All they would see was a horse.

  Chuckling at his petty act of protest, Teng sent one of Father’s pupils to buy another jug of double-brewed rice wine.

  As soon as he entered the packed theatre – its murmuring, speculation, hundreds of darting eyes – Teng feared a grave error of judgement. Too late now. An usher cleared a path to seats reserved specially. ‘Make way! Make way!’ Four people followed the bustling man: Teng supporting Deng Nan-shi’s arm; behind them, Abbess Yun Shu in the regal attire of a Serene One and, huffing in the rear, Eunuch Bo-Bai with a basket of cushions, flasks and refreshments.

  ‘You will be pleased by our seats, Father,’ murmured Teng.

  The old scholar glanced at his son. As ever, a look midway between approval, query and unspoken criticism.

  The arrival of their party did not go unnoticed. People rose to get a better view of the last surviving Dengs. Some bowed low. Others muttered amongst themselves. Just as visible was Abbess Yun Shu. Everyone noticed her public association with disloyal scholars. Hence Teng’s fear of a grave error. Unscrupulous Buddhists might use the Deng clan’s dubious reputation in their campaign to gain possession of Cloud Abode Monastery.

  He glanced at Yun Shu to see if she had noticed. A flush of animation coloured her plump cheeks: the flutter of a smile touched the corners of her mouth. She was as excited as a child to be in the theatre. As ever, her naivety filled him with conflicting emotions. Alarm on her behalf, of course. More strongly, a protective warmth he could not explain. A desire to understand her better.

  ‘Lady Yun Shu,’ he said, ‘please sit on Father’s right side. It offers a better view of the stage, I think.’

  The stage, jutting out into the tiers of seats, was bare apart from a backdrop depicting mountains and a gentleman’s mansion that climbed a hillside in three distinct stages.

  Once she was settled, he said, ‘Notice the backdrop. I painted it myself. You might recognise the house from your famous ancestor’s poems, perhaps?’ To address her Teng was forced to lean a little over his father, who sat between them. The old scholar’s glance passed from one animated face to the other. Whatever he thought did not reach his tongue.

  ‘Can that be,’ she began. ‘Yes, it must be! Three-Step-House in Wei Valley! Yun Cai’s poems mention it often.’

  Teng laughed with self-satisfaction. ‘Did I not promise my new drama would interest you greatly?’

  Perhaps too
greatly. For Yun Shu had ignored Lady Lu Si’s counsel not to attend the first performance of I weep for Su Lin. Principally because Teng had used the life of her ancestor, Yun Cai, as a loose model for his play.

  It was a popular story. And a subtly provocative one. Despite telling how Yun Cai proved himself a hero by his loyalty to the Emperor, everyone in the audience knew that Emperor had belonged to the previous dynasty. In addition, Yun Cai’s father had saved the life of the barbarian-baiting rebel, Yueh Fei, nearly two hundred years earlier. As two hundred years is but a wing beat of time, the implications were obvious. Accordingly, the theatre was packed.

  ‘My play is not exactly based on Yun Cai’s career,’ Teng admitted to Yun Shu. ‘I have made certain improvements.’

  Her enthusiasm faltered a little. ‘How can one improve on a life already lived?’ she asked. ‘One may question another person’s decisions but not alter them.’

  A slight smile crossed Deng Nan-shi’s impassive face. Teng knew his father was thinking she’s got you there. He decided to accept defeat gracefully. ‘A wise thought,’ he conceded, ‘yes, very wise.’

  Out of the corner of his eye, Teng spotted another party hurrying to their seats before the play began. The orchestra of pi-pa and lute, drum, clappers, flute and ch’in commenced the overture. Teng stiffened.

  The latecomers were as notorious in Hou-ming as the Dengs. They wore glittering silks and hairpieces, shuffling on tiny lotus feet. A dozen male courtesans from Prince Arslan’s palace, quite as well regarded as females of the same profession. In their midst, older than his companions, Golden Lotus, the concubine-spouse of Salt Minister Gui – the very man who had purchased Teng’s forgeries for an exorbitant price.

  Perhaps lingering guilt caused Teng’s discomfort. Or a memory of placing the seal of Yueh Fei on one of the paintings. Mostly he feared Golden Lotus’s presence would distress Yun Shu. When he glanced at her, it was obvious she had not noticed the newcomers. Delight at the orchestra made her beam. She revelled in every sensation of her release from the repetitive chanting and endless prayers in Cloud Abode Monastery. Relieved, Teng settled back as the play began.