Taming Poison Dragons

by Tim Murgatroyd

  Su Lin.

  I took the letter to the Imperial Library, and replied after a thoughtful day’s study, smiling as I chose my words:

  Su Lin,

  You will find enclosed with this letter a copy of the poem you mentioned. I hope it is to your taste.

  Sadly, some have interpreted it as a criticism of the relief offered by His Imperial Majesty to the fire’s victims, though that is not my intention. It seems my fate to be perpetually misunderstood. Never mind. Bamboo endures many winds. You say that sometimes you wonder if I remember you. Nature has granted me an exceptionally good memory (though I do not mean to boast) and so I remember you very well. But that is not the same as meeting.

  Your Incorrigible Friend, Yun Cai.

  Her reply:

  Dearest Incorrigible Friend,

  I have never had an incorrigible friend before. In fact I had to ask a learned person who I know what ‘incorrigible’ means. Where did you learn such noble words? No, do not tell me, I can guess.

  It is enough to say that they could turn a poor girl’s head! I am glad you have a very good memory.

  Perhaps you will remember that it is my birthday on the thirteenth day of this month. Unfortunately I cannot think of anyone I wish to celebrate it with.

  So I am leaving that day free. It will give me a chance to wash my hair.

  Your Friend Across The Lake, Su Lin.

  The thirteenth was a fortnight away. I thought carefully before I replied:

  Dearest Friend Across The Lake,

  I was deeply troubled to learn that you cannot think of anyone with whom to spend your birthday.

  Fortunately, I have a solution. If you wait on the shore beside your house at the time of the second afternoon bell, some kind of company may present itself. I say ‘may’ but I mean ‘will’. Whether you choose to be there is up to you.

  Yun Cai.

  I received no further letters.

  The time preceding the thirteenth day of the sixth month brought more anxiety than pleasant anticipation.

  My worries were endless. Firstly, the number thirteen is known as the Lord of Troubles for good reason. I expended a hundred cash to establish the propitiousness of the day, but the astrologer’s reply was ambiguous, everything seemed to depend on paying him more to establish the true relationships of the heavens. So I was left in extreme doubt.

  Then there was the matter of a suitable present. Again, modest means narrowed my hand. I finally decided on a silver girdle-charm depicting two mountains overlapping.

  The symbolism, I hoped was obvious. Both of us were children of the mountains. Then again, many love songs are called Mountain Songs, because a young man on one peak is supposed to sing to a comely girl on another, their voices echoing back and forth across the valleys.

  However, the quality of the silver-work shamed me.

  Finally, I worried about the weather, for my plan to delight her depended entirely on a fine day.

  At last the day came. Quite appropriately, considering the date, low clouds rolled over the city, undecided between sunshine and rain. The air hung still and humid.

  Mi Feng, who had observed my preparations with silent interest, suggested I pack a thick parasol. I smiled at him thinly.

  When I loaded my small boat with a basket of flowers, plenty of wine and delicacies wrapped in lotus leaves, the first bell of the afternoon sounded from Blue Dragon Monastery, rolling across the lake. A faint breeze ruffled the water, enough to give me wings. Then I rowed out from the shore, and raised the small sail. It flapped like a disconsolate sigh, before finding courage, and puffing out in the breeze.

  Glorious hour of my life, to be young and excitable, to weave through pleasure boats and skiffs, until I sailed before the jetty fronting the cottage where she dwelt.

  No sign of her on the shore. In fact nobody was around.

  Misgivings set in. Su Lin had sent no definite word she would meet at the time and place I had suggested. At once I feared my own rashness, ever a fault with me, and almost turned back, determined to preserve a little dignity.

  But I sailed back and forth a couple of times, as the low bell of a neighbouring tower intoned the second hour.

  Perhaps she was watching from her window. Perhaps she waited for proof I would really come. Abruptly, the door of a cottage opened, and my heart swelled like my sail. Su Lin stepped out alone, carrying a small basket.

  Straightening her dress, she proceeded by small steps towards the jetty as I guided my craft to the shore. We reached the jetty at the same time and regarded each other silently.

  ‘Have you no greeting for me?’ she asked, nervously.

  ‘Does my appearance displease you?’

  I laughed, and the tension between us flew away like a freed bird.

  ‘My eloquence is in my eyes,’ I said.

  I climbed ashore and helped her into the wobbling boat, both of us smiling at the inappropriateness of her fine clothes. The touch of her hand lingered in my own as I loosened the sail.

  ‘It is a delight to share your Feast Of A Thousand Autumns,’ I said.

  Su Lin laughed more uncertainly than she had when we shared humble doorsteps. For a moment I wondered if my desire was for someone who had vanished, for a dream. In part it must have been. Yet that bold girl stood before me still. Time had merely added to her; and if she lived long enough, yet more women would emerge from within her.

  There is no such thing as a single life.

  ‘I prefer spring or summer,’ she said. ‘Autumn is so cold and dry! Though your kind wish is appreciated.’

  ‘Is that why you are here?’ I asked, pretending to fuss over the tiller.

  ‘Perhaps.’

  Her tone dangled something. I decided not to press for more. So we sailed wherever the wind took us all that hot, sticky afternoon. Above us, clouds knitted their brows, but we did not notice. Our talk was of gay, inconsequen-tial things, gossip she had heard of great men while singing in their houses, her favourite songs (I begged her to sing a few, on condition we share a cup of wine for each song).

  ‘What if it spills?’ she asked.

  ‘Then we will pour another.’

  ‘What if all the wine runs away?’

  ‘I have brought plenty.’

  So Su Lin sang in her strong, clear voice and I listened, touched that she chose to perform a setting of my Lotus poem. She must have learned it specially. It could hardly have been part of her usual repertoire. A passing pleasure boat applauded and we laughed gaily. I smiled with pride to keep company with such clever beauty.

  Sometimes doubts and fears are best unspoken. To fill my eyes with her was enough: to catch traces of her perfume amidst the clear scent of the lake, the oiled wood of the boat; to share hopes of the future, knowing they might never be gathered; to listen sympathetically and be heard in my turn – these things became world and sky, night and day, for a few hours.

  Su Lin squealed at the first drop of rain. Absorption in each other had blinded us to gathering clouds. By now we were a good way from her house, even further from my own. I glanced round and spotted a small, wooded island I had often noticed, though never visited, on which stood a miniature pavilion. The sky darkened, hastening dusk. Yet for all the rain it was still uncomfortably hot. I drove my boat onto the island shore with a bump.

  ‘Quick!’ I cried. ‘Take that basket!’

  We gathered our belongings in haste and hurried up the mossy path to the pavilion. As soon as we had entered, the rain began to fall in earnest.

  The single room was deserted, as was the entire island.

  Grains of rice from a previous picnic lay on the bench, which I took as a lucky sign. A faded mural covered one wall, depicting Zhong-kiu with his magic sword raised above his head.

  ‘We are well-protected from demons here,’ I remarked.

  In the corner stood a low shrine, equipped with the means for visitors to make burnt offerings. I found flint and kindling and, after many failed attempts,
lit the lamp.

  The room filled with soft, flickering light.

  Strange we should be so shy of each other. First we exchanged and explained our presents – for in reply to my birthday gift, Su Lin had brought me peonies to show she wished me well, bamboo to honour my strength and fruit to promise fecundity. We toasted each gift with wine and shared our food.

  ‘Well,’ I said, when the meal was done.

  She sat back on the floor, meeting my glance with lowered eyes.

  ‘Well, what?’ she asked.

  ‘Who would have imagined this when I first heard you sing of the mountains?’

  ‘No one sensible,’ she replied.

  ‘Must we always be sensible?’

  My heart choked my voice. Without reassurance, even the strongest love recoils. For a long moment she seemed to consider.

  ‘Not tonight, at least,’ she conceded. ‘For one night both of us may make an exception.’

  And we did, our finest clothes strewn around the dusty floor for bedding. Her fragrances intoxicated me until dawn. I whispered to her, ‘You are a flower re-born’, but we both spoke more through urgent sighs than words. My heart strove to break from my breast as I touched and released her secret fragrance for the first time. Texture of skin and luxuriant hair spun frailest, firmest nets. Once not enough. Both of us hungered. And my most piercing joy lay in proof of her own. Some would call me unmanly for that. Yet her soft cries released all the ardour of my youth, tempting us to acts strangely free for new lovers.

  We did not care or feel shame.

  With the first light of day we sailed from that island, curiously silent. Joy lessened by a certainty of parting, for I could not afford to keep her and my prospects were poor. To taste sweetness just once makes the pleasure cruel. I could offer only my heart and, as we passed boats laden with fine silk or oil or fish for the market, a faithful heart seemed little enough.

  After our night in the pavilion, Su Lin haunted my small-est actions. We had cast down the defences holding us apart as surely as any city wall. But a wall is made of beaten earth. Our barrier was a compulsion toward different destinies. Earth is composed of grains where one might grow the sweetest flower. Petals may unfurl, day by day, heady with scent. If the soil is starved, only bitterness takes root. And that is a hardy plant.

  Our first meeting after her birthday took place in the Garden Of Ineffable Solace. I insisted on it, for I wished to banish painful memories of the day we met with her ugly chaperone. This time we were alone. As ever, she filled my eyes, until I saw nothing else. Blindness made me awkward.

  ‘Come with me,’ I said, brusquely. ‘I must show you something.’

  I led her to the pond where the water-lilies floated. Five golden carp swam at their ease.

  ‘Are we to be as free as those fish?’ I demanded.

  ‘How strangely you speak, dearest Yun Cai,’ she said.

  I blushed at my own intensity.

  ‘My love, I only mean to ask, are we to swim as they do, disregardful of each other unless they brush occasionally, then swim away?’

  ‘You speak in riddles!’ she declared, in her best mountain accent.

  I knew she understood my meaning exactly. She peered at the pool and said, almost timidly: ‘But see, dearest Yun Cai! They can never be free for they are bound by the limits of the pond.’

  I could not answer that.

  ‘Sit with me,’ I said.

  We sat side by side on a stone bench, a decent distance apart.

  ‘I often think of that night,’ I said. ‘Do you?’

  ‘Often. Very often,’ she replied.

  ‘I cannot believe it ever ended,’ I said. ‘If you will come with me to my house, it could begin again. This afternoon could become our night.’

  She slowly withdrew her fan from her belt, and fanned herself like a moth fluttering its wings.

  ‘I am free this afternoon,’ she said. ‘I have no engagements.’

  It was high summer. We lay together in the soft light of late afternoon and her skin glowed. As dusk fell, she had to hasten away, an engagement to fulfil. I sat by the lake with wine and ink, sampling both to excess until the quarter moon grinned. Then I recited a poem to the moon, my voice echoing across the lazy water.

  Another time I met her at a restaurant near East Canal Bridge. We sat in a curtained alcove. Voices formed a lulling drone behind our conversation.

  ‘It has seemed a long week since we met,’ I said, once the waiter had gone, closing the curtain behind him.

  ‘Yet a busy one,’ she replied.

  ‘For you, at least. My work in the Deer Park Library is so light, I feel compelled to present myself there several times a week, just for something to do. The Chief Librarian has grown suspicious of me, in case I’m seeking his job.’

  Su Lin took a languid sip of wine. She dabbed her lips on a napkin.

  ‘What do you do at the library?’ she asked.

  ‘I read. And read. And read. Then I think.’

  ‘Is that all?’ she asked. ‘I am surprised you have not gone blind.’

  ‘No, I do other things. I study all the approved authors to pass the Imperial Examination, though my heart lies elsewhere. I make no plans to sit the Examination, but study for knowledge’s own sake.’

  ‘If you are studying like that,’ she chided. ‘Surely you must take the test! One like you should possess such an honour.’

  I shrugged helplessly.

  ‘I read only what interests me,’ I said.

  She became grave.

  ‘Ah, Yun Cai. That way years pass.’

  ‘But with pleasure,’ I countered.

  ‘And little profit to yourself,’ she replied.

  ‘I cannot help my own mind. Sometimes I sit down intending to compose model answers. Then I look out of the window and I notice the way a leaf falls or a bird trills.

  And I grow distracted.’

  She sighed.

  ‘You must not. Are you to be content with a modest salary until the day you die?’

  ‘No, I suspect not. But why are we so serious?’

  So I poured her another cup and made light of ourselves, but I could tell Su Lin was somehow disappointed. It did not stop us ending the evening in each other’s arms.

  *

  Another time I took her sailing once again on the West Lake. Perhaps I hoped to recapture the excitement of her birthday. If so, I heard more than I wished, for she opened her heart and I was forced to drink her words.

  ‘Yun Cai,’ she said. ‘Do you never think of the future?’

  I laughed.

  ‘The future is a dream. Do you see how the breeze stirs your lovely black hair? In that moment, all past, present and future are contained. It makes me happy.’

  ‘One day that hair will grow grey,’ she said.

  Su Lin did not take her eyes from my face. When I talked as I thought, she often listened with attention. Had she been born a gentleman, I have no doubt she would have composed poems. Instead, her own poems were the lilting, delicate songs required by her trade. This time, I could tell my words did not satisfy her.

  ‘Does my answer displease you?’ I asked, coldly.

  ‘Oh, it is a fine, fine answer. But when you talk like that, much as I like it, I know your words float away.’

  For all the brightness of the day, a shadow fell across us.

  ‘I am afraid,’ she said. ‘You think that I am someone different from myself.’

  ‘Then what are you?’

  I let the sail go slack, so the boat drifted. A noisy pleasure boat passed by, full of young men who shouted ribald comments. I ignored them.

  ‘Teach me,’ I repeated. ‘What you are.’

  ‘What strange questions you ask!’

  She took out her fan and opened it in agitation. Then she closed it, laying it across her knees like a rod.

  ‘I will tell you, since you ask. I am an ordinary girl who wants ordinary things! Is that so wrong? Already my beauty is showi
ng signs of age. When it is gone I shall have little value. Now is the time for me, the time when I must gather enough wealth to set me up for the rest of my life. Can you not see I have worked and worked to win just that? I should have the friendship of wealthy gentlemen, so I may use their presents wisely. I can almost afford a carriage, Yun Cai! Imagine it! Poor Su Lin from muddy Chunming, in a carriage! Poor, nobody Su Lin with servants and dresses as fine as any lady!’

  I did not reply. It seemed better to wait for the worst.

  ‘But when I am with you,’ she continued, miserably. ‘I forget what I must do. How can it be that the thing I take the most joy in, your company, threatens to ruin everything.’

  ‘Ruin is a strong word,’ I said.

  ‘No, you do not see! I have set my heart on things you cannot give me.’

  Then she began to weep. As the boat rocked gently, I took her hand, more like a brother at that moment than a lover.

  ‘Oh, what is the use!’ she cried.

  She laughed with forced gaiety.

  ‘Take me back to your house,’ she said. ‘And I will sing you songs and we shall drink wine and make love.’

  So we did. And I tried to please her. I had persuaded myself each moment we shared would breed new moments. I could not think beyond her presence until she had gone, busy about her shrewd business. I even suppressed jealousy through a thousand subtle arguments; yet all the while it gathered in my heart like a clammy, black stone.

  This was the time when I completed the West Lake sequence of poems, which became so popular one could hear them sung by servant girls and porters on the street, for they were written in the plainest terms, and many who heard or read them found mirrors of their own longing. I took much satisfaction from my fame. But, of course, it brought me no wealth. A poet’s words, once released, blow like thistle seeds to the Eight Winds and grow where they may without any reward. Besides, I lived in a state of constant agitation. Bizarrely, those poems worked against me, for word got about of the singing girl who had inspired them and Su Lin was more in demand than ever.