Taming Poison Dragons

by Tim Murgatroyd

  ‘The General’s kindness is well-known,’ I say. ‘We are grateful.’

  Youngest Son is beginning to flush round the cheeks, always a dangerous sign with him. I have extracted what promises I can.

  ‘Father should retire to Three-Step-House,’ says Youngest Son. ‘He will understand I must arrange bivouacs for my men.’

  I nod.

  ‘Perhaps Honoured Father needs a jar of wine after his exertions?’ he asks, smiling slyly. ‘I’m sure he does.’

  Already the boy grows impudent. His officers chuckle, indicating that words have passed concerning my weakness.

  ‘Naturally, you shall join us to dine?’ I enquire. ‘You and your esteemed officers.’

  He grunts, barely able to hide his satisfaction. I have traded my renunciation of him for the village’s safety.

  *

  I leave the square, accompanied by Wudi, who carries my scrolls of Po Chu’i’s poems and parasol. As we shuffle up the hill, I turn. Soldiers are scattering round the streets and lanes of the village, seeking the fattest billets.

  Youngest Son lolls like a lord in Father’s ebony chair, my chair. Though I cannot see his expression, there is exhilaration and pride in the way he grasps the chair’s arms, surveying his men as they scurry like ants. Anger is an emotion I can ill afford.

  ‘Did it go well, Wudi?’ I ask.

  He scratches his chin.

  ‘No one’s drawn a sword yet,’ he says. ‘Not yet.’

  He is right. I have bought only a little time.

  ‘Did you discover where the Imperial cavalry are hiding?’ I whisper, though there is no one to hear us except the crickets.

  ‘In the side valley beyond Shady Wood,’ he says, quietly.

  ‘A good place. They are clearly well-led. But Youngest Son will be aware of it. General An-Shu must want these men badly. He has sent an officer who knows the district and at least two companies of his best men. Why are the Imperial cavalry so important to him? I still do not see why they came to Wei at all.’

  Wudi shrugs, as if to say, If you don’t know, how should I?

  ‘Wudi,’ I say. ‘Are you prepared to risk another son?’

  ‘I only have two left,’ he says, dryly.

  ‘If you are, send one of them to warn the cavalry.

  Tell them they should hide their traces and let their horses loose. Tell them to conceal themselves in the caves behind Heron Waterfall and not to come out under any circumstances, until they are told it is safe. Your son must show them the little entrance. The caves were discovered after Youngest Son’s banishment, so he will not search there.’

  Wudi scowls.

  ‘Is it wise to get involved, Lord?’

  ‘I believe so, in the long term.’

  ‘It shall be done as you wish,’ he says, reluctantly.

  By the Goddess of Wei Valley, I hope I act wisely.

  Certainly she must be angered to have her wells and streams polluted by such a rabble. Yet my actions, perilous to everyone around me, are based on the words of Thousand- li-drunk, a notorious madman: General An-Shu will never become the Son of Heaven. Remember that in your dealings with the cavalry who escaped. Yet stranger changes of dynasty have occurred.

  If my judgement is right, then my son, for all his fine uniform and whiskers, is to be pitied. If I am wrong, he is to be pitied a hundred times more.

  As I enter the gate of Three-Step House, a solitary scream rises from the village below.

  Three-Step-House is subdued. Even the sounds of chopping from the kitchen lack their usual vigour. The maidservants who did not accompany Daughter-in-law to Whale Rocks Monastery go about their work as if they have already been dishonoured, unmarriageable without a huge dowry to tempt future parents-in-law.

  Eldest Son comes to my room. At once it is clear he has been drinking. Well, we are all acting out of character. If I’m sober, why shouldn’t he be drunk? Perhaps wine might discover hidden courage in him. Yet I am ashamed for him. Some are fired by wine, others made ignoble.

  ‘Did you see him, Father?’ he asks, miserably. ‘What did he say?’

  ‘Only that he is hunting rebels and deserters.’

  ‘Did he mention me, Father?’

  ‘No. You must be calm! Drink as much water as possible and sleep for an hour. All will be well if you follow my instructions.’

  He wrings his hands. A pitiful sight. And worrying.

  ‘He’s angry with me,’ he says. ‘Though it is not I who took away his inheritance.’

  I realise then, he is not to be relied upon. His brother always had too much influence over him. Above all, Eldest Son must not hear of my dealings with the Imperial cavalry. I must remember to warn Wudi of this.

  ‘He is not even angry with me,’ I protest, gently. ‘So this is my advice. Act like a simple-minded country lord’s son.

  Talk only of the harvest and how lazy the peasants are and your favourite places to fish. Let his officers make fun of you as a simple type, and if they laugh at your expense, laugh with them. Above all, keep Youngest Son talking about himself without offering any opinions of your own.’

  Eldest Son blinks at me stupidly. Will he recall any of this when it matters?

  ‘Remember, our best defence lies in being agreeable,’ I add. ‘Personally, I am prepared to act the fool if it keeps us safe. You should do the same.’

  He giggles hysterically.

  ‘Everyone likes to feel superior,’ I say. ‘Why shouldn’t we bumpkins oblige?’

  ‘Father is wise,’ he mumbles, though he doesn’t sound sure.

  ‘Go to your room,’ I say. ‘Remember you are my heir.

  And no more wine!’

  ‘Yes,’ he says. ‘Thank you, Father.’

  I’m left to examine shadows in the room. Finally, I take my own advice and lie down on the couch. Images of angry faces and Eldest Son’s panic shimmer across my mind. But I am old and cannot help dozing, exhausted by my trial with Youngest Son. I listen to a cricket chirping insistently outside. A thin, clear, rhythmic sound. Then the past awakens, half-dream, half-memory. They say an old man’s past is more real than his present. If the Lord Buddha is to be believed, both are illusions.

  The cricket’s chirp opens the door to this house, as it was, when I was a boy.

  At that age I had many interests, but my great passion was crickets. The noble art of cricket-fighting was revered just as highly in our village as in the capital. Though I could not have guessed it then, those restless insects set in motion my long journey to the Imperial examinations –and all the fear and exhilaration which later haunted my ambitions.

  Three-Step-House nourished many kinds of cricket, as a city sustains all sorts of people. I recall a sunny morning in the seventh or eighth month. Waking soon after dawn to birdsong and the chirrup of insects. My tiny bedroom lay in the corner of the highest building. Its window faced mountains capped with snow even in summer. A stand of bamboo nestled in the terraced field at the side of the house. I heard servants chattering in the courtyard below and cockerels crowing up and down the valley. Sweet scents in the air: dew drying, wood smoke, the summer pungency of plants.

  I dressed quickly and padded down the central corridor, eyes and ears sharp for the slightest rustle of papery wings. By the front entrance I found Little Wudi, the bailiff’s son, waiting for our daily hunt. In his hands a clay pot with a wooden lid and rope handle.

  We skipped down the brick-lined stairs to the lowest building, for it was there we always began. The kitchen maids bowed, but I ignored them, my business more pressing than a palace eunuch’s. At the faintest chirp or click we froze, searching like famished cats after mice.

  In the courtyard dwelt a type of cricket which, though unattractive, was dogged and resilient. Because it fed upon household waste and chicken droppings it was often mean-spirited. The villagers called this plain, ordinary type Straight-Backbone-Wings.

  Then Little Wudi and I made our way to the pigsty. It was built, as in mos
t houses, beneath the privy so the pigs might benefit from their masters’ waste. I was afraid of the pigsty, though I tried hard not to let Little Wudi see, on account of a story Mother had told me about the First Wife of the Emperor Goazu.

  Empress Lu struggled for many years with her husband’s favourite concubine, Lady Qi. Both women wished to have their sons proclaimed heir to the throne and for a long time the succession hung in the balance. Then came Goazu’s sudden death – some whispered his First Wife had a hand in it – and Empress Lu’s son ascended to the Heavenly Throne. At once the Empress poisoned Lady Qi’s children and any other girl Goazu had favoured. She ordered the dismemberment of Lady Qi’s hands and feet, gouged out her eyes, scorched her ears with red-hot tongs and crushed her tongue so that her old rival could only grunt. Then Lady Qi, once so exquisite, was thrown into the pigsty beneath the Imperial privy. The entire court was encouraged to demonstrate their loyalty by defecating on the half-mad woman crawling among the pigs. Empress Lu even invited ambassadors to view ‘the human pig’, as she named Lady Qi.

  This story taught me bad dreams, and each time I visited the privy I peered nervously through the hole for Lady Qi.

  Nevertheless the privy was home to a kind of cricket whose piercing chirps were like mournful gongs on a foggy evening, echoing from afar. One could only listen in wonder.

  Leaving the courtyard, we climbed back to the Middle House. Here Mother and my sisters were already at work, embroidering gowns and coats so we might appear finer than our neighbours. A long, clean room where they laboured in silence, save for murmured instructions or rebukes. When I arrived Mother would brighten. She always favoured me over my two sisters, who were older and on the cusp of marriage. That was natural. There’s a saying in Wei: one son worth a dozen daughters. Unless, of course, your son turns out to be a feckless, disobedient wastrel.

  Mother summoned me to the stool where she worked, brocade spread across her knees, and stroked the small tuft at the top of my shaven head. ‘Did you sleep well?’

  ‘Have the servants laid out a proper breakfast?’ ‘How much did you eat?’ I was too impatient to answer, my business too important. At last she released me with a sigh.

  Little Wudi and I scampered to the store chambers at the side of Middle House. Here might be found a white, bloodless kind of cricket living in the dark spaces beneath the eaves, known as Pale-Fragrant-Forehead, on account of its clammy body. A morose creature, it seemed too gentle to make a good fighter, but as they say, beware silent ones. I saw it leap upon green field crickets and crush them after a short struggle. Pale-Fragrant-Forehead detested any intruder in its territory, where it laid numerous sticky white eggs, like tiny beads. These it tended with fierce devotion. So to get the best from it, one had to collect a few eggs for it to guard.

  The lumber rooms were mostly empty, although with each year more clutter filled the bare spaces. Our family owned little when Father first came here after his elevation. Mother put it about that our numerous ancestral possessions were lost on a boat which caught fire. Father always looked embarrassed when she recounted this tale to visitors, and rapidly changed the subject.

  The truth was far more wonderful.

  Father and his brother, Uncle Ming, were both self-made men. Of their parentage I know little. It was a subject everyone avoided. Sadly, none of our ancestors’

  bones lie in the family tomb that Father constructed at great expense. We are much weakened by this misfortune.

  He became Lord of Wei as a reward for his service in the wars. Most notably, he leapt to the defence of General Yueh Fei when the latter had been unhorsed during the Battle of T’su Hu Pass, and found himself alone, surrounded by barbarians. At this desperate moment a humble lieutenant of the Glorious Destiny Regiment appeared by his side. He instantly slew two Kin warriors with his halberd and decapitated a third. Then he drew his sword. Bellowing like a frenzied bull, he swept away another four barbarians. By this time other soldiers of the Glorious Destiny Regiment had formed a protective ring around General Yueh Fei and my father had sustained enough wounds to kill a dragon, let alone a man. The proof was written across his body in deep scars until the day he died.

  Those minutes of valour broke my father physically, but made him a gentleman. In gratitude General Yueh Fei granted him the title of Wei Valley and composed an elaborate curse lest any of his descendents seek to rescind it. I know, because the document is preserved within a hollow ox bone in my strongest chest.

  As a boy I heard this story often. Father would relate it in the hall of the Upper House, his voice proud as plum wine. I sat at his feet and longed to be a hero like him. His words intoxicated me.

  Yet in winter he hugged his old scars against the cold and might say nothing for days on end.

  But I was remembering how we hunted crickets.

  Finally I would lead Little Wudi to the topmost building, where our family slept and sat in the evening. Here dwelt the most ferocious of crickets, nesting between cracks in the walls. Crow-Head-Gold-Wings was the name of this doughty fellow. It had a green neck and purple-black wings streaked with gold. Its head was thick, body broad-backed, and its legs were long with muscular thighs. Crow-Head-Gold-Wings fed upon crumbs, shreds of fruit or flower stamens, but mostly other insects. Truly, a superior cricket! Yet rare.

  I only found one fully-grown, lurking near Father’s chair. In truth, I thought it so beautiful that, notwith-standing its fierce reputation, I chose never to let it fight.

  For a whole autumn it chirruped and sang in the cage above my bed, a sound so pure and hopeful it elevated my spirit. By the tenth month it was dead. I found it curled at the bottom of the cage, a crumpled, forlorn thing. Losing its companionship made me wail terribly. Mother ran to see what was wrong.

  I felt guilty in the midst of my grief. As Crow-Head-Gold-Wing’s master, was I not its father? Yet I had not been able to prolong its life.

  My own father mocked my tears. He reproached me for losing face in front of the servants. Even Mother shook her head sadly, chiding me for being too sensitive, warning that worse losses occur in life. I was inconsolable.

  ‘Trees may prefer calm,’ she said. ‘But the wind will not subside.’

  In reply I composed a short poem in Crow-Head-Gold-Wing’s honour, which I recited in secret to Mother. She listened carefully, then persuaded Father that I should begin learning my characters without further delay. A monk was duly hired from a nearby Daoist monastery for that purpose.

  No poem could save Crow-Head-Gold-Wing, and I never found another like him. I wonder where the dust of his tiny, valiant body has blown, fragile as a lost day, fleeting as childhood.

  One morning, Father ordered me to collect wine and a bamboo basket of food from the kitchen. I was ten years old. We left the house as a flight of geese passed noisily over the valley. Father leant on his stick and peered up, muttering to himself. Then he struggled out of the village toward Mulberry Ridge. I remember longing that people would see me being useful to him.

  It was a slow journey. Often he gasped with pain. On the ridge he sat for a long while, regaining his breath. I crouched in silence, hugging my knees, gazing out across the plain, until his chesty voice startled me, as if from a dream:

  ‘Little Yun Cai, what is it that fascinates you?’

  Not knowing the required answer, I bowed in embarrassment. He grew impatient.

  ‘What makes you stare?’

  I wanted so hard to please him. Then I recalled an educated neighbour reciting a poem in our house. Father had seemed truly delighted. Closing my eyes, I spoke uncertainly at first, then boldly:

  Green green the far off willows, Far far the town of Chunming.

  Beyond the horizon only future.

  I must travel toward haze and mist.

  As soon as the words were spoken, I wondered where they came from. Certainly a higher, better place than Wei.

  Yet I barely understood what the poem meant. Father shifted, uneasily.

&nbs
p; ‘Who taught you that?’

  ‘No one, Father.’

  ‘Do not lie to me. Who taught you that verse?’

  ‘Nobody, I swear.’

  He glared at me.

  ‘Father, I thought of the words because. . . to please you. I often hear songs and verses in my head. I’m sorry.’

  He looked at me in wonder.

  ‘You did make it up, didn’t you?’

  ‘Forgive me,’ I said, fearfully.

  To my surprise, he laughed his dry laugh.

  ‘There’s not a gentleman for fifty li with a son who can compose like that! So your mother is right about your true talents. She was always shrewd. When you were born, I prayed that you would win renown in the Glorious Destiny Regiment. Now I see you are heading a different way.’

  That afternoon he said nothing more, but drank his wine and ate his basket of rice and river shrimp. Though I did not know it, those lines of verse, crude and childish, but highly precocious, had determined my fate.

  Everyone knows poetry is the key to wealth and office.

  Only those who can reproduce the wisdom of the classics through faithful imitation dare hope to pass the examinations and enter the Emperor’s vermilion doors. Then the way to honour and esteem for one’s family lies wide open, a road lined with envy and precious things. Father was well aware that scholar-officials were the real power in the land of Sung. The Son of Heaven distrusted military men, fearing his generals might attempt to seize the throne for themselves.

  That same evening, Father summoned a monk to write a long letter to his brother, my Uncle Ming, in the capital, and set about waiting for the reply. He was good at waiting, as with everything else. Yet I sensed his impatience.

  For he had made up his mind I was to pass the Emperor’s examination and become a high official.

  Six months were all that remained of childhood, before I had to change from a spoilt, carefree boy to an anxious scholar. My time in Wei was drawing to its end. Mother hugged me frequently, and made me a suit of clothes far too big, as though she hoped to keep warm my future self. Sometimes she wept for no reason. Once she took me aside when Father was away in the village and whispered: