Dragonkeeper

by Carole Wilkinson

  “Important people are gathering to ensure that the new Emperor’s reign will be auspicious. Great scholars, astrologers and shamans are coming from all corners of the empire. Ordinary citizens will be flocking to the capital to celebrate the beginning of the new Emperor’s reign.”

  The scholar glanced at the sky. “In fact, it’s getting late. If you’ll excuse me, I must hurry on my way. I have to reach the next village before it gets dark.”

  He bowed politely to Ping and ran off along the path.

  The dragon re-emerged from his hoe shape.

  “Did you hear that?” Ping asked.

  Danzi nodded.

  “It must have been the pickle.” Ping leaned against a tree for support. “I’m responsible for the death of the Emperor.”

  “The way of Heaven is to diminish excess.”

  Ping supposed that was meant to make her feel better, but, since she had no idea what the words meant, it didn’t.

  Their evening meal was very small. The dragon was too tired to hunt for birds and there were no streams nearby where Ping could trap fish. They ate raw mushrooms and nuts. Hua, who wasn’t fond of mushrooms or nuts, went off to find his own dinner. Ping thought the dragon didn’t eat enough for a creature his size.

  As they sat in the growing darkness sipping water heated over a fire, Ping finished the basket she had been weaving from dried reeds. She was tired of carrying the dragon stone under her arm. It was an awkward size, too heavy to hold with one hand, far too big to fit in her pouch. She was glad when they stopped in the evening and she could put the thing down. She had other things to carry as well—a melon gourd for heating water, a stick that she’d carved into a spoon, a stone on which to sharpen her blade. She hoped a basket would make her job easier.

  “The only reason you want my company on this journey is to carry the stone for you,” Ping grumbled. “A donkey would have done the job as well.”

  Danzi was examining the stone as he did every evening, turning it over, being careful not to scratch it with his talons. As he did, he repeated the instructions about the stone’s care which Ping had heard on at least three times ten occasions already. Don’t leave it in a draught. Don’t wrap it in fabric made from five-coloured thread. Danzi stopped halfway through telling her not to put the stone anywhere near the leaves of the chinaberry tree.

  “Something is wrong with stone,” he said.

  Ping went over to look at the stone. It had lost its lustre. The milky white swirls had turned grey. The purple had faded.

  “Ping must be doing something wrong.” Danzi was making anxious gonging sounds.

  She sat down on a rock with a weary sigh. “What makes you think it’s my fault?” There was a clink as the blade in her pouch struck the rock.

  “What was that?” Danzi asked sharply.

  “It’s my blade,” said Ping, pulling it from the pouch.

  The dragon was at her side in two strides. He grabbed the blade between two talons and hurled it into the bushes as if it was burning hot.

  “Blade is made of iron!” He made a deep, loud rumbling sound.

  “I know that.”

  “Which arm do you use to carry dragon stone?”

  “My right, so that my left is free to do other things.”

  “Stupid Ping! That’s why stone is unhealthy. It rubs against blade. Stone cannot be near iron. Not ever!”

  Ping glared at the dragon. “If you don’t like the way I carry it, carry it yourself!”

  Danzi stroked the stone.

  “Must go to Chang’an,” he announced.

  “But Danzi, we’ve been avoiding people ever since we started travelling. Why do you suddenly want to go to the busiest place in the world?”

  “For stone,” the dragon replied.

  “I don’t want to go to Chang’an,” said Ping.

  “Danzi decides.”

  Ping had a strange feeling, a foreboding that something bad would happen if they went into the capital. She tried to explain it to the dragon, but he wouldn’t listen.

  “Those filled with life need not be afraid of tigers,” he said.

  She ignored the dragon. She was tired and soon went to sleep despite her fears, but she woke when it was still dark from a dream about being trapped in the dragon pit with Lan laughing down at her. After that she lay awake until a grey dawn softened the darkness.

  Ping didn’t know what to expect of Chang’an. Master Lan and Lao Ma had both talked about the capital from time to time, but she couldn’t picture it.

  Over the next days, the path turned into a well-used track and then into a wide road. It was the first road Ping had ever seen. It was divided into three sections. In the middle was a smooth stone path that was almost empty. This was the part of the road on which only the Emperor, his ministers and messengers could travel. On either side was a pebble path crowded with carts, horses and people on foot.

  Danzi spent entire days in his old man shape. At night he fell into a deep exhausted sleep. Ping was relieved when the walls of the capital finally came into view. As the city loomed closer, her relief turned to anxiety. The mud brick city walls were the highest that she had seen. The gateway was higher still. It had towers four storeys high on either side.

  “Chang’an has eight gates,” Danzi’s weary voice whispered in her mind. “This is southern gate, known as Gate of Luminous Virtue.”

  Ping gazed up at the wooden towers, which were painted blue and red and green. Statues of snarling dogs crouched below the eaves. There were balconies at each level from which imperial guards armed with crossbows glared down at the crowds.

  By the time the road reached the gate it was almost five times ten chang wide. Many wagons could have travelled side by side along it. Hordes of people pressed around them, pushing and shoving, all trying to get through the city gate. Ping wanted to get away, but she couldn’t. She was carried forward by the crowd.

  The city was overwhelming. Ping had never imagined that so many people could be in the same place at one time. In fact, she thought the entire populations of the Han empire and foreign lands must be in the city that afternoon. The main street, the Street of the Vermillion Sparrow, stretched north in a straight line. The buildings towered high on either side of the road. They were beautiful, but too big. The middle of the street was full of officials and messengers. The sides were packed with people and wagons and carriages. She felt Hua wriggling in her gown. He hadn’t been able to come out all day. She held the neck of her gown shut so he couldn’t get out. The air was stale as if many other people had already breathed it in. It was also laden with smells—perfume, horse dung, roasted meat and sweat—all mixed together. Ping thought that she would suffocate. She grabbed hold of the old man’s arm to steady herself. Instead of feeling the fabric of the sleeve that she could see, she felt the dragon’s scaly skin. The strange sensation made her feel sick.

  On one side of the street, high walls surrounded houses. Polished wooden gates hid the houses, but their steep tiled roofs, glazed with blue and green, were visible over the walls. There were towers four and five storeys high, all with beautifully carved eaves and roof decorations—twisting carp, prowling tigers, magnificent birds. On the eastern side of the street were the walls of the Emperor’s main residence, Changle Palace. It stretched on for many chang and must have taken up a quarter of the entire city. The walls were decorated at intervals with glazed terracotta roundels, some with green and blue coiling dragons, others with red phoenixes.

  Every few steps brought something new for Ping to marvel at. Outside the main palace gate was an avenue of ten plus two enormous bronze statues of men and horses towering above the walls. Ping had to lean back so far to see their heads she thought she would fall over backwards. The huge gates opened and a two-wheeled carriage pulled by a prancing horse came out. Through the gate Ping glimpsed a beautiful building with a black-tiled roof supported by pillars painted gold and inlaid with jade. It made the palace at Huangling look like a peasant’s ba
rn. The gates closed and the vision was gone.

  Even the street beneath her feet was a wonder. It was paved with perfectly flat stone slabs. On each side of the street were gullies made of curved terracotta tiles. Ping couldn’t work out what they were for, until she saw someone throw a bucket of dirty water out of a doorway. The gully carried the water away. Ping imagined that when it rained the gullies would stop the street from flooding.

  The people coming and going along the street amazed Ping as much as the buildings. They wore gowns of patterned silk and fur-trimmed coats. Gold and jade jewellery hung around their necks. The women wore ornaments in their hair, delicate birds and flowers that fluttered in the breeze.

  “I didn’t realise city people were so rich,” Ping said.

  The noise of the city was like nothing Ping had ever experienced. As well as the many people shouting at each other to be heard over the noise of other people shouting, entertainers were performing by the roadside. There were dancers twirling to the sound of drums and bells, sword jugglers, and acrobats balancing one on top of another. Each of these performances attracted a crowd of applauding spectators. Ping would have liked to stop and watch, but Danzi hardly seemed to notice the entertainment. He kept walking, focusing on some purpose unknown to Ping.

  They entered a different area of the city where the houses were smaller and simpler, though still well built. They were freshly painted. Neat potted plants sat on either side of the front doors. They passed through a marketplace with stalls offering everything imaginable for sale. Fruit and vegetables were displayed in piles like jewels. There were some that Ping had never seen before. Cooked meat stalls made Ping’s stomach grumble. Fish and turtles swam in shallow dishes. There were bowls full of snails, some trying to make a slow escape from their fate as someone’s dinner. Other stalls sold beautiful black and red lacquered bowls and cups, or jewellery, or bolts of coloured silk. For the first time in her life, Ping wished she had money to spend.

  It was growing dark. The stallholders began packing up their wares. Lanterns were lit and hung in the streets. Although he had said nothing, Ping sensed that Danzi’s ability to hold his old man shape was nearly exhausted.

  “Where are we going to spend the night?” asked Ping.

  She knew that there were inns where travellers could sleep, but she also knew they cost money—and they had none. Danzi didn’t reply but turned into a narrow alley. This part of the city didn’t have an air of festivity like the other streets. The houses were low, narrow and patched. Chickens and the occasional pig grubbed in the dry earth lanes. The people were dirty and ragged and glared at Ping and Danzi. Their faces, lit by lamps and candles, cast sharp shadows and looked harsh. The foreboding she had felt before entering the city became stronger. She was sure something bad was going to happen. Ping longed to be out in the countryside again, where there was nothing to fear but tigers and snakes.

  She glanced at Danzi. His old man’s skin was turning green, his arms were becoming scaly, his hands were turning into paws. He staggered and Ping caught his arm. It turned into a dragon leg and paw, and rested heavily on her own arm. It was dark now but there were still plenty of people in the alley. Some were cooking on open stoves, others were sitting on steps eating their evening meal. Lamplight spilled out onto the street from open doorways. Ping was envious. She longed for a roof over her head, a pile of dry straw beneath her and a lamp to light the darkness. Danzi still hadn’t told her why they’d come to the city.

  They turned into an even narrower alley. There were fewer people, less lamplight. They passed a man who had a scarred face. Ping was certain she saw a blade glint in his hand. The dilapidated houses seemed to close around them. Ahead, the end of the alley disappeared into darkness. Ping glanced behind them. The scarred man was watching them. Two others joined him. They moved closer. Ping had nothing of value that would interest thieves. Her heart started to thud—nothing but the dragon stone in the basket slung over her shoulder. She held on to it tightly.

  Danzi pointed a taloned finger at a small house. There was a sign outside, cracked and with paint peeling off it. Even if Ping had been able to read, she couldn’t have made out what it said in the darkness.

  She knew that at any moment she would have a green dragon leaning on her arm. What these people would make of that, and what they would do to her and Danzi, she didn’t care to know.

  She did not know who lived in the house, but she was sure she’d rather face one person’s reaction to an old man transforming into a dragon than that of a whole street of people. She banged on the door. The old man now had two taloned paws instead of hands, and his gown was melting into the darkness, revealing scaly green legs. His teeth were growing long and sharp. His hair was disappearing and horns were growing on his head. Ping looked away to stop herself feeling sick. A small child saw the dragon face and started to cry. Ping hammered on the door again. It opened a crack. Ping had no time for polite explanations. She pushed the dragon through the doorway and into a courtyard.

  A man wearing a gown with wide sleeves and his hair tied in a tight knot on top of his head stared in amazement as Danzi completely materialised in his dragon form. The dim light from the man’s lamp threw shadows of sharp horns and talons. Ping had never realised how frightening Danzi looked. The man’s face suddenly broke into a smile.

  “Long Danzi!” he said. “It has been many, many years.”

  • chapter nine •

  OLD FRIENDS

  “Are you sure of her?” Wang asked.

  The dragon didn’t answer.

  “It has never been a female before. You could

  be mistaken.”

  The man’s smile faded as Danzi collapsed. With Ping’s help, the man half-carried, half-dragged the exhausted dragon into a room off the courtyard. A fire was burning in a hearth. A pot of something that smelled very good was bubbling on the fire. The house, which had appeared to be dark and threatening just a few minutes earlier, had transformed into a warm and welcoming place.

  The man helped Ping bring the dragon closer to the fire. He wasn’t a young man, but he wasn’t old either. His hair was greying at the temples and receding a little from his forehead. He introduced himself to Ping with a formal bow. His name was Wang Cao. He seemed at ease with a dragon in his house. His face showed his concern for Danzi, but there was also a calmness about him. Though she didn’t know who he was, Ping trusted him. It was a relief to hand over responsibility for the dragon to someone else. Danzi started to make low metallic sounds, but the man held up his hand to stop him. “Food,” he said. “You need nourishment.” Ping sat down on a carpet next to the dragon. Wang Cao filled bowls with gruel and then brought roast chicken and vegetables. Ping couldn’t remember a better tasting meal. Danzi was too weak to feed himself. Ping picked out pieces of chicken and lotus root with chopsticks and fed him.

  “I am an old friend of Long Danzi’s,” Wang Cao explained.

  Ping wondered how this man had become a dragon’s friend. Had Danzi plucked him from a mountainside as well? She kept her questions to herself though.

  “Let’s find out what ails our friend,” Wang Cao said after they had finished eating.

  “Stone,” said Danzi feebly. “Show stone.” Wang Cao looked at the dragon. “What stone?” Ping realised that he could hear the dragon’s voice in his mind just as she could.

  ”Your health is more important than the stone, Danzi,” said Ping.

  The dragon shook his head. “Bring stone.”

  Ping pulled the dragon stone from her basket. Wang Cao’s eyes widened in surprise. He gently lifted the stone from Ping as if it was made from the finest porcelain and turned it over in his hands.

  “This is a rare thing indeed,” he said. “But what happened to make it so dull and colourless?”

  “I was carrying it close to my iron blade,” Ping confessed.

  Wang Cao shook his head gravely. “Another day or two and it would have been beyond my help.”

&nbs
p; He put the stone down and carried a lamp to the other side of the room. The wall was lined with small wooden drawers. Another wall had shelves holding jars, lumps of mineral rock and mother-of-pearl shells. Wang Cao pulled down one of the jars.

  “This is red cloud herb ointment,” Wang explained to Danzi. “It should restore the dragon stone to its former health. Your assistant can take care of that.”

  Ping was wondering who Danzi’s assistant was. She was surprised when Wang Cao put the jar in her hands.

  “Rub this into the dragon stone,” he told her. “I will attend to our friend.”

  Ping scooped out a handful of sticky ointment and smeared it onto the stone. It was the colour of dried blood. She smiled at Wang Cao. It was kind of him to humour the old dragon and pretend that the stone was sick.

  Wang Cao turned his attention to the dragon. “Now, Long Danzi, let me see your tongue.”

  The dragon poked out his long tongue. Instead of its usual bright red, it was the dark colour of old meat and coated with a yellow film. Wang peered at it closely, muttering words that Ping didn’t understand. Then he felt Danzi’s pulse at all four ankles and asked questions about his bowel movements. He inspected the sores on his legs.

  “His wing is torn,” Ping said. “He can’t fly.”

  Wang pulled out the damaged wing as if he was opening a fan. The gash in the central membrane was starting to heal, but it looked inflamed.

  “A crossbow bolt struck him in his left shoulder as well,” Ping added.

  Wang gently prodded the wound. Green liquid seeped out of it.

  “I can see you have not had an easy journey,” Wang Cao said.

  Ping told him about their escape from the dragon hunter.

  “It isn’t every day I treat a dragon,” the man said. “I will need to consult a book.”

  Ping had never seen a book before. It was made of thin strips of bamboo about the length of a chopstick and not much wider. About twice ten of these strips were bound together at the top and bottom to make a mat. Small characters were written in black ink down the length of the bamboo strips. Wang put down the book, went over and opened several of the drawers. Each one was full of a particular type of dried leaf or root or else stuffed with seeds or crushed flowers. He scooped out a little from each of the open drawers and weighed out precise amounts on a small set of scales.