Although she just wanted to collapse, Ping knew she couldn’t. She rekindled the fire and settled the dragon close to it. All the wood she had collected the day before was wet. The fire smoked and gave off little heat for some time. As she waited for it to burn properly, she constructed a screen of branches on one side of the overhang to stop the driving rain from slanting into their shelter. She stacked more wood close to the fire to dry and made the dragon as comfortable as she could on the hard earth. The fire finally stopped smoking and started to flame. She made a herbal draught for Danzi with the last of the dried herbs that Wang Cao had given her. She set the pot on the fire. Danzi would need food. Their supplies were running low. In any case, Ping thought the dragon would need more than millet and wild vegetables. She made the slippery journey back to the lake. The meat offering was still in the cauldron in the shrine. Ping felt no qualms about taking the meat. It was an offering to the dragon of the lake. Danzi had done what the peasants wanted, risking his own life. If he wasn’t entitled to the meat, no one was. Ping took the four oranges as well.
As soon as it was ready, Ping forced some of the dark brown herbal liquid between the dragon’s teeth. He showed no sign of reviving. She ate a little of the meat and one of the oranges, then banked the fire and lay down beside it.
Ping slept longer than she had meant to. It was well past dawn when she woke. She looked anxiously at the dragon. His eyelids flickered. Relief washed over her like hot spring water. He was still alive. The fire had gone out but she was able to revive it by blowing on the ashes and adding dry wood. The front of her gown was dry where she’d lain facing the fire, but it was still damp at the back. The heavy rain had slackened to drizzle. Ping reheated the herbal liquid and managed to get the dragon to swallow a few mouthfuls. She ate more food and made herself some tea. It revived her.
She heard a faint metallic chiming. “Ping has done well.” It was the most beautiful music she’d ever heard.
”It’s good to hear your voice again, Danzi,” Ping said, smiling at the dragon.
Another faint noise came to her ears. Not metallic dragon sounds, but small squeaks and scratchings. She looked down and saw a bedraggled rat struggling to climb up the folds of her gown.
“Hua!”
The warmth from the fire made the rat steam. Ping laughed out loud. Danzi made the sound like jingling bells. Her arms ached, her gown was damp, but at that moment Ping had everything she wanted.
Her happiness faltered when the dragon held out his wing and she saw the damage he had done by flying up to the clouds. The thin stuff of his wing hung in tatters.
“Danzi,” she cried. “Look at your wing. Perhaps I can bandage it with some strips of cloth. I’ll get the red cloud ointment.”
“No!” said the dragon as Ping reached for her bag. “Must save ointment for stone.”
“The stone’s gone. Don’t you remember?”
“Of course,” said the dragon.
“You’re not thinking about going back for it again, are you?”
“No.”
Ping wasn’t sure she believed him. “We have to do something to your wing or you’ll never be able to fly again. Please let me put some ointment on.”
The dragon shook his head firmly. He contemplated his ruined wing. “Too damaged,” he said. “Ointment will not heal. Ping must sew.”
“Sew?” said Ping.
“If shreds are sewn together, wing will heal in time.”
Ping had never imagined when she bought the needle and thread that she would be using them for such a purpose. She threaded up the red silk and started to sew together the ragged tatters of Danzi’s wing.
“Doesn’t it hurt?” she asked, wincing as she pulled the thread through the membrane.
“No pain.”
When Ping had finished, Danzi held out his wing again. Ping couldn’t help smiling. “It looks like a patched blanket,” she said.
• chapter fourteen •
SWIFT PASSAGE
“Isn’t this the wrong way?” asked Ping.
“Ocean is in the east”
“The straight path must sometimes be
crooked,” replied the dragon.
“You really made it rain, Danzi,” Ping said.
The rain continued to fall. Ping sat with the rat and the dragon in the rock overhang, sipping tea and looking out at the wet landscape and the rapidly filling lake, enjoying the simple pleasures of being warm, dry and well fed.
After two days the clouds cleared and the rain stopped. Danzi got to his feet and walked to a spot from where he could see the peasants busy in their fields. One was pulling a plough, others were bent double as they planted seeds. Ping heard the dragon’s melodic wind chime sounds.
“Time to resume journey,” he announced.
Danzi didn’t mention the dragon stone. He seemed to have forgotten about it. Ping was sad that she would never see it again, but at least they were moving towards Ocean again.
A few hours after they set out, Ping was surprised when Danzi suddenly turned from their eastward path and started to head north.
“Isn’t this the wrong way?” asked Ping. “Ocean is in the east.”
“The straight path must sometimes be crooked,” replied the dragon.
The dragon walked slowly as if each step needed careful concentration. He spoke even less than usual. His last disastrous flight and his contact with iron had weakened him. Ping had to wait until they stopped for their midday meal before Danzi explained the change of direction.
“Must go to Yellow River,” he told Ping. “Travel by boat.”
This was an even greater surprise. The dragon had previously been reluctant to spend any of the money that Wang Cao had given them. Ping had had to argue for hours just to spend a single copper coin on food.
”Cannot fly for many weeks,” Danzi explained. “Must reach Ocean before summer ends.”
The dragon had never mentioned that their time was limited before, but though Ping questioned him, he wouldn’t tell her why. Her feet were callused from so much walking. If river travel meant that she didn’t have to walk, she was happy to go along with Danzi’s new plan.
When they reached the Yellow River, Ping could only stand and stare. They had passed streams on their travels. They had walked beside canals. They had crossed over a rush of water that Danzi had called a river, but it was a mere trickle compared to this seething river. The Yellow River was so wide that Ping had to strain her eyes to see the other side. It raced along at such a speed that she didn’t know how the boatmen stopped their boats from being overturned. The other startling thing about the river was that it really was yellow, or at least a sandy brown colour.
“Yellow earth from distant land washes into river,” Danzi explained. “Travels all the way to Ocean.”
They were on the outskirts of a busy town which seemed to have the sole purpose of providing a harbour where boats could tie up to collect or deliver large amounts of cargo. As they approached the crowded wharves, Danzi explained to Ping what she must do. She had to find a small boat which was travelling, not just to the next town, but as far eastward as possible. Then she had to offer the boatman a reasonable sum of money (not so much that he would become suspicious) to give up his living quarters for the journey. Ping was to tell him it was because her old grandfather was ill, but in fact it was so Danzi could stay undercover and not have to spend too much time in his old man shape.
The wharf was a solid construction of stone where many men were loading and unloading cargo. Piles of sacks and crates of chickens were stacked everywhere. Carts, packhorses and sedan chairs made it difficult to find a path through. Steps led down to the water’s edge where at least four times ten boats were tied up. Some were large boats crowded with passengers. Smaller boats were piled high with sacks of grain, mounds of vegetables or bolts of silk fabric. The boats, whether large or small, were all built the same way. They were made of thick wooden planks and had a deck that sloped up slightly at
either end so that both prow and stern were raised out of the water. The decks of the larger boats were roofed to protect the passengers from wind and rain. The cargo boats had small cabins where the boatmen lived, but the rest of the deck was cleared for cargo. Teams of rowers manned the larger craft, but the smaller boats were each managed by just two men. There were also fragile craft, nothing more than large bowls made of leather bound onto bent bamboo, carrying baskets of grain and dried fish. These flimsy craft, poled by fishermen or farmers on their way to market, looked in danger of sinking.
Ping left Danzi behind a stack of grain sacks where he could rest in his dragon shape unseen by the people on the wharf. A large ginger cat with one eye came and sat next to Danzi.
“There,” said Ping. “You’ve got a companion while I go and find a boat.”
She spent several hours going from boat to boat, trying to find one with room for passengers. The boatmen were suspicious of her and unwilling to give up their quarters. They all told her to go to the passenger boats. Ping didn’t like the river. It was too fast-flowing, too dangerous. She didn’t like the unfriendly people who worked on it either.
She returned to where she had left the dragon.
“I wish we were back on the road,” she said. “I don’t care about blisters and aching legs. Can’t we continue walking?”
“What is Ping afraid of?” the dragon asked.
“Drowning.”
“Boatmen very skilled. Few people drown in river.”
Ping didn’t care if only a few people drowned. She didn’t want to be one of them.
“There’s only one boat I haven’t tried, and that’s the one right at the end.”
She pointed to a boat that was moored at a distance from the other boats. The deck had fewer sacks and crates piled on it.
“It looks like it’s got plenty of space.”
“Boatman must be dishonest or unfriendly,” said Danzi. “Possibly unskilled.”
Ping liked the look of the boat though. It was well kept. The sacks of onions and melons were neatly stacked and the ropes, sails and poles were carefully secured on deck. There was something about the boatman she liked as well. While the other boatmen were lounging around in noisy groups telling stories of their travels, this one was busy sweeping the deck. She ignored the faint sounds of Danzi’s anxiety and went up to the boat.
“I’d like to inquire about passage east,” Ping said.
The boatman turned and came over to Ping. She suddenly realised why she’d felt drawn to this particular boatman. It wasn’t a man at all, but a woman. She wore her hair uncovered and tied back in a rough plait. Her face was darkened and lined from many years on the river.
“I don’t take passengers,” the boatwoman said.
“We wouldn’t get in your way,” Ping replied.
The boatwoman was dressed in hemp trousers and a wrap-around jacket like the men. She wore heavy waterproof boots. Her palms were callused from constant rowing and poling her boat in the strong current. The one-eyed ginger cat strolled up the gangplank and rubbed itself up against the boatwoman’s legs.
”Alright,” she said. “I wouldn’t mind some company.”
“Is this your cat?” Ping asked.
The woman nodded. Her stern expression disappeared as Ping stroked the cat. Ping struck a deal with the boatwoman and went back to bring Danzi on board.
“For a few extra cash, the boatwoman will cook meals for us,” Ping told the dragon.
Now that her journey was going to be profitable despite her small load of cargo, the boatwoman was eager to set sail.
“Couldn’t we wait till morning?” asked Ping, who wasn’t as eager to venture onto the river.
“There are still four hours of daylight left,” the boatwoman said. “And if we leave now, that’s one night’s mooring fees I won’t have to pay.”
There was nothing more to delay them. Ping led Danzi to the cabin. The boatwoman untied the boat and pushed it away from the wharf. She poled out of the sheltered harbour until the fast current grabbed the boat and pulled it out into the river. Ping held on tight. The boatwoman’s eyes sparkled and then disappeared in folds of cheerful wrinkles as she laughed at Ping’s discomfort.
“I can see you haven’t sailed before,” she said. “Don’t you worry, I’ve never lost so much as an onion to the river.”
The boat skimmed through the water at an alarming speed. It had seemed sturdy enough tied up to the wharf, but now it was being tossed about like a toy. The banks on either side of the wide river rose up in steep cliffs but they seemed a long way away. Pinnacles of rock reared out of the water, and Ping was afraid the boat would crash into them. The boatwoman, steering the boat alone, had to work hard, but she confidently guided the craft around the pinnacles. Two large islands appeared in front of them dividing the great river into three narrow channels.
“The Three Gates,” said the boatwoman. “The right channel is the Gate of Men, the middle channel is the Gate of the Gods and the left one is the Dragon Gate. Which one will we go through?”
Ping was flustered. “I don’t know anything about sailing. Can’t you choose?” Why did everyone expect her to make decisions?
“I don’t often have travelling companions. I’d like you to decide.”
Ping looked at the three channels. “The Dragon Gate.”
“A good choice,” said the boatwoman. “It is the longer channel as it curves around the largest island, but the current is slower there, so it is easier to steer through.”
“What are the other two like?”
“The Gate of Men has the slowest current. It seems to be an easy path, but it has hidden dangers as there are many half-submerged rocks to negotiate. The Gate of the Gods is the shortest and the straightest route, but the current is treacherous. You chose well.”
The boatwoman steered the boat towards the left channel. The wind dropped. The current slackened, the boat slowed. Steep cliffs shut out the afternoon sun. Ping felt more secure with the banks closer. She noticed holes carved into the cliffs, which the boatwoman said were the cave homes of poor people. Some of the caves’ inhabitants were walking along precarious paths cut in the side of the cliffs. They waved as the boat passed. In the sheltered curve of the channel the cliffs were replaced with grass-covered hills and a bamboo thicket. Then the cliffs reared up again. The boat passed around the northern shore of the island and they were pulled back into the angry current of the river. The boat picked up speed again. Ping felt sick.
The boatwoman’s name was Jiang Bing. Her boat was about twice ten paces long and the deck sloped up at both ends just like the other boats. At the stern was a large rudder which the boatwoman used to steer the boat. In the middle of the deck was the boatwoman’s cabin. This was nothing more than a wooden hut with a roof of woven bamboo. Inside was a straw mattress. It was simple, but it provided the privacy for Danzi to spend whole days in his dragon shape. The sides of the boat were only a foot higher than the deck. Ping was convinced that she was going to fall into the river. There was only a short length of railing, outside the cabin. This was where Ping sat, clinging to the rail.
The boatwoman didn’t have to row. The current was very fast and she only had to stand at the stern and steer with the rudder. The boat dipped and rose in the turbulent river waters. It needed all her strength to keep the boat on course. Ping tried to imagine the back-breaking work that Jiang Bing would have to do to row back against the current. It didn’t seem possible that the boatwoman, not much bigger than Ping, could do this by herself, but she must have done it many times.
Danzi had told Ping that in one day on the boat, they would travel the same distance as they could walk in four days. Ping was pleased that they were making such speedy progress, but it also made her uneasy. It seemed unnatural to be moving so quickly while doing nothing more than sitting on a sack of onions. Ping stared down at the swirling yellow water. Its force frightened her. She had felt the power of water when she had been thrown
into the still waters of the lake. If she fell into the Yellow River, it would suck her into its muddy depths and not even Danzi would be able to save her. Ping watched Jiang Bing sitting at the stern firmly gripping the rudder and scanning the river ahead. She felt confident that they were in good hands.
The cat sat on a basket staring at Ping with its one yellow eye. Where the other eye should have been was a crooked scar. The cat didn’t ever seem to blink. It made Ping uncomfortable.
”He isn’t usually so interested in people,” the boatwoman said. “I don’t know what he finds so fascinating about you.”
“I do,” said Ping. She carefully pulled Hua from her gown.
The cat crouched, ready to pounce. Hua looked at the cat and frantically tried to wriggle away. Ping quickly stuffed him back into the folds of her gown.
The boatwoman laughed. “Now I understand.”
When the sun had disappeared below the horizon, the boatwoman steered the boat towards the bank and found a narrow inlet where the current wasn’t so strong. She dropped a small anchor overboard and then started to make their evening meal. Ping lit a charcoal fire in a metal dish on legs which Jiang Bing used to cook on. The boatwoman scaled the fish she’d caught earlier to make fish stew.
After the meal, Ping washed the bowls and chopsticks in the shallows. Then when she had made sure that Danzi was comfortable, she made a bed for herself between sacks of cabbages and crates of melons. The deck rocked as the boat pulled against the anchor, as if it were eager to be moving again. The black, star-speckled sky stretched above them. She could see the constellation of the Azure Dragon that Danzi had taught her to locate. Each night the moon travelled across the sky from the dragon’s horn to its tail. It had just reached the horn, but she was so tired she knew she’d be asleep before it got as far as its neck.
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