The moon forms a bright sickle in the sky. Its radiance finds gaps between clouds. Then the moon’s grinning face is obscured once more. I am back on earth. Back in my narrow attic room. Back in doleful Chunming.
So my thoughts. . .
A white cloth hangs from the window, signalling to Thousand- li-drunk that Golden Bells has been bought.
For several days it has hung like a flag while the hours have alternated between rain and stifling heat. Still I hear no word from him. I must assume he has reasons for silence, that he is busily seeking P’ei Ti’s release. Perhaps he has been captured.
Tonight I am just a fearful old man. Slowly, slowly the moon reappears until it, at least, is brave. The Festival of Ghosts swirls towards dawn.
In the depth of night, one must find comfort where one can. I lie on my bed meditating upon a spider’s web as it catches the moon glow. Always thought intrudes. Feelings are caught in its sticky strands like helpless flies. Youngest Son’s face is trapped there. I do not recollect him as he is now, a stern officer in a doomed army, but as a boy, often beside his mother. And it is strange to remember her.
Unwelcome thoughts. I recall returning from a week of carousing and fitful piety in a nearby monastery. It was morning, all the servants busy about their business. But Youngest Son sat patiently in the gatehouse. He must have been eight years old. I sensed he had been waiting for days. He regarded me with up-turned eyes.
‘Little cub,’ I said. ‘Have you become a gate god?’
He looked away. Bit his lip.
‘Is something on your mind, little fellow?’ I asked.
Perhaps I felt guilty. Perhaps not.
‘You do not love us, Father,’ he muttered.
Of course, I should have beaten him soundly for such impudence. Most men would. A hot breath filled my spirit. I lifted my arm. Then I saw the cringing defiance in his eyes. My arm fell. I sat beside him on the bench lining one wall of the gatehouse, throwing to the floor a bundle of poems I had written during my stay at Whale Rocks Monastery. I could feel his warmth against my own.
‘You are wrong,’ I said, shaking my head. ‘Quite wrong.’
He bristled, as a boy will. How eager he was to amend my faults! Had no one told him a father has no failings, only oddities?
‘Father, why do you stay away so often? Mother is sad when you are away.’
‘Is that why you are angry?’ I asked.
‘Yes.’
I held out helpless hands.
‘It is just that, sometimes, I need fresh winds on my face.’
He watched me intently. Every shred of his being contended to understand what I barely understood myself.
‘You go away as often as you can,’ he said, finally.
One should not deny the truth. Especially to a child.
Especially to one’s son. Your whole duty is to bring him up well, so he despises a lie.
‘I will spend more time with you,’ I muttered. ‘Yes, I will.’
For all my promise, I didn’t. Or not enough. That night I railed at my wife, drunk again, reproaching her for turning my own sons against me.
My wife. Why is it hard to remember a familiar face?
Though she knew me better than anyone in Wei, except perhaps Wudi, she eludes me.
Her breasts were firm and large, though sagging in later years. Her thighs were broad and strong from climbing steep hillsides. And, of course, she relished every kind of food and so did not resemble a willow.
My wife maintained a comfortable home for me and perhaps I did not deserve her labours. Nevertheless, she gave them dutifully. Not for my sake, I always thought, but for our children. Certainly she gained much through our marriage. I have no reason to reproach myself. If I barely recollected her for years, why think of her now?
Oh, my longings were elevated and far away, fixed on a woman who never aged as we did, one forever lithe and beautiful. Beloved, immaculate Su Lin. Every day of exile painted a fresh layer of lacquer on my disappointment.
I rise. Splash my face. The night is full of rain-sounds.
When I return to the bed, my wife’s image is not washed away. A plump face, inclined to happiness, easily delighted by small things: a pleasant gossip with one of the servants, or a good meal, or singing a mountain song with the other women as they sewed. I greet the dawn with a strange thought. Men are lessened by too much rule over their wives. That, too, is nonsense. One often thinks foolishly between sleep and wakefulness, especially on a night like this.
Light creeps into the room and I am glad of day. My wife and son will leave me now. She had a beautiful name: Fragrant Dawn. A name to set day ablaze, though her face could resemble a stubborn mare, its jaw thrust forward.
And her fragrance was variable, too.
Let her be. Let her rest. In the past I did not honour her spirit enough and that is why she haunts me.
Remembering is a kind of punishment. If I ever return to Three-Step-House I shall sacrifice a dozen scented dishes to her memory on the ancestral shrine. Then the outer will match the inner and harmony will be achieved. It was simply not our destiny to grow old together.
I am quite resolved to cease brooding over Fragrant Dawn. She has gone. Those years and all I might have enjoyed through them are gone. Now I have a new duty to justify my life, a noble endeavour. Freeing P’ei Ti might vindicate every failure.
‘Venerable Sir! Venerable Sir! See these plums! Such fruit will gladden your family!’
I brush the man aside. What use have I for plums when anxiety is giving me indigestion?
Another fellow appears at my elbow.
‘Bronze tripods! Urns for your ashes so splendid that your descendents will honour you like a prince!’
Walk deeper into the market. Ignore him. All this talk of urns may be a bad omen.
The entire contents of houses are spread out on the moist earth. Those impoverished by war or the families of those executed as traitors by the Empress-in-waiting must sell all they possess for a little food. Respectable people, parting with dearest heirlooms for a few cash. One cannot eat an ornament one’s grandfather scrimped to buy.
General An-Shu’s rule has carved a thousand cuts on the body of Chunming, so the city bleeds out its wealth, gash by gash.
‘You have a kind face, sir! Pity a poor widow. Buy my dumplings and luck will serve you forever!’
This makes me pause. I need luck. And I need pity, if for no other reason than to feel superior. Besides, dumplings are my favourite. So I buy a handful and eat one while the wretched woman screams to heaven itself that I should be blessed with a thousand grandsons. Will the Jade Emperor hear her among this babble of voices? It seems unlikely.
And her dumplings are stale. I move on.
A message reached me this morning, summoning me to a certain shop in the South Market. From its crazy style I believe it was sent by Thousand- li-drunk. Yet I have no proof. It might well be a snare, a means of confirming my guilt. And in times like these, in a desperate city like Chunming, guilt comes easily.
At last I find my destination. The message instructed me to seek out the Astrologer Mu behind a shop selling caged birds. I hear the establishment before I see it. Even in an uproar such as this the sweet, pure trill of songbirds pierces through. The merchant lolls in his doorway. He has a curved nose and expressionless, flickering eyes. He bows and gestures me inside. I follow, glancing round nervously for a sign that I am being watched. In such a crowd, who may tell?
His shop consists of a narrow, rectangular room.
Dozens of bamboo cages hang on the walls and the air is full of cheeping. Thrush and sparrow, oriole and swallow.
A man who can understand the language of birds may learn enough to avoid danger. But who is to say bird-demons do not watch from these cages? If so, their situation is precarious. A brace of thrushes is a feast to many in Chunming.
‘Ah, sweet music!’ I remark.
He nods. To grin so steadily would hurt most men’s mou
ths.
‘Perhaps I will consider a purchase after I have consulted the Astrologer Mu,’ I say. ‘He is available for a consultation, I take it?’
He points to a curtained entrance at the rear of the shop.
‘Through here?’ I ask, determined to provoke a reply.
But he is back at his perch in the doorway, scanning the crowd for customers.
The curtain he indicated is tattered and made of the coarsest hemp. I step through and at once someone is beside me. A glitter of metal catches my eye. I cry out. A rough hand grips my arm. A blade forces up my chin.
There are two of them in the darkened room. One on a low bench: Thousand- li-drunk, complete with his basket of crickets. The armed man is the Ensign Tzi-Lu. He appears to have recovered from his day beneath the privy in Three-Step-House and bows gracefully as he lowers his knife. I have no doubt he would have cut my throat quite as nimbly.
Thousand- li-drunk motions that I should sit beside him on the bench. There is nowhere else to sit.
‘I take it you are the Astrologer Mu?’ I ask.
‘Sometimes,’ he admits.
‘Please remove your basket of insects,’ I say. ‘I would prefer it if you did not dine right now.’
His eyes widen a little.
‘Lord Yun Cai is displeased?’
‘How could I be otherwise? It seems strange you did not contact me earlier. A white cloth has hung from my window for several days. Considering the risks I have taken, I expected some word.’
‘About what?’ asks Thousand- li-drunk.
‘Whether you have conversed with Golden Bells.’
‘Oh, we’ve done that.’
‘And?’
‘He is pliable,’ says Thousand- li-drunk. ‘You did well.’
I settle back on the bench. The Ensign Tzi-Lu stands guard, listening by the door with the utmost attention.
‘So Golden Bells has been purchased?’ I remark.
‘Indeed he has,’ breaks in the gallant Ensign. ‘But that is nothing, unless we have a plan for freeing His Excellency P’ei Ti.’
‘Do not utter that name aloud!’ hisses Thousand- li-drunk.
I glance between their taut faces.
‘Do you possess such a plan?’ I ask.
Thousand- li-drunk glowers at his basket of crickets.
‘A delicate question,’ he says.
‘One may say that,’ snorts Ensign Tzi-Lu. ‘Days pass and still we are no nearer our goal. Who knows what they are doing to His Excellency? As for me, I do not like to think of it.’
I watch them shrewdly, reminded of debates between Wudi and Eldest Son about managing the estate. It is my habit to remain silent.
‘We should act at once,’ declares Ensign Tzi-Lu. ‘Delay plays into the hands of the enemy.’
‘You are too hot,’ replies Thousand- li-drunk. ‘Even if we gain entry to the prison through the side door, kill the guards and release His Excellency from the cell; even if we escape through the same side door, where do we take him from there?’
The Ensign Tzi-Lu brushes aside this objection with a contemptuous hand.
‘We hide him in the city.’
‘But where? You are too hot, my young friend.’
I raise a finger. Both fall silent.
‘If one is to judge the harvest,’ I say. ‘One must consider the weather. How does the wind blow?’
‘His Majesty’s forces draw closer and closer,’ says Thousand- li-drunk.
‘How close?’
‘From the word I receive, a few days at most.’
‘What of it?’ protests the Ensign. ‘One day or ten, we must brave the prison and I say sooner rather than later.’
I cough politely.
‘Let us consider this from General An-Shu’s position.
Or that of his advisers. Firstly, His Excellency P’ei Ti is a great prize. He must not be squandered. But how is one to use him? That is the question. How?’
The Ensign shrugs.
‘Who knows how traitors think?’ he says.
‘Young man, they think mostly like you and I. Now, His Excellency may be useful as a hostage,’ I continue. ‘But they will know very well that the Son of Heaven would sacrifice him if need be. Or he may be used for other purposes. What might those purposes be?’
Thousand- li-drunk mops his brow. Certainly it is close in the room. He is out of his depth, and I sympathise.
Playing the madman is one thing, a desperate venture like this quite another.
‘We need confusion to aid us,’ he says. ‘Remember, while the snipe and mussel were fighting, the fisherman caught them both.’
‘You’ve lost your nerve, old man!’ jeers Ensign Tzi-Lu.
‘I say, we get him out and then see how things stand.’
I sigh. In so small a room, so hot and unpleasant a room, a sigh can be loud.
‘Why exactly have you summoned me here?’ I ask.
Thousand- li-drunk examines me sharply.
‘We need to know whether anyone has questioned you concerning His Excellency.’
Then I understand. If P’ei Ti has mentioned my name, I might already have been interrogated. If they believe this, I will never leave the bird seller’s shop. It says much about their incompetence that they took the risk of drawing me here. After all, I now know their hiding place. And who is to say I did not bring spies with me.
‘No one has uttered P’ei Ti’s name in my presence,’ I say.
They regard me silently. For a moment Thousand- li-
drunk seems about to speak.
*
‘That at least is settled,’ breaks in the Ensign Tzi-Lu, evidently relieved. After all, he owes me his life. ‘Your loyalty was never doubted.’
My faith in them, hardly high, descends another rung.
The morning is passing; perhaps all hope of releasing P’ei Ti is passing. I rise and bow. They say nothing as I leave.
My disquiet can scarcely be expressed. Success lies beyond too many locked doors.
When I step into the market square, stallholders are frantically gathering their goods and everyone is in a hurry to leave. I chance upon the widow who sold me a handful of dumplings.
‘What is happening?’ I ask.
She replies with the whites of her eyes and I am none the wiser. Families bustle away. Two wheelbarrows collide and the merchants loudly abuse each other. I clutch a stranger’s arm.
‘What is happening?’
‘Get yourself home, old sir,’ he says. ‘The General is returning. Best not to be on the streets today.’
With the aid of my stick, I shuffle towards the house by the ramparts. Yet prudence must not always rule a man.
There are things I would know and that entails risk. Most of all I long to see Youngest Son’s face. So at the crossroad I turn toward the East Gate, joining a crowd of merchants and streetwalkers, beggars and urchins, eager to witness the entrance of the army. I arrive just as the first soldiers appear and take up position beneath a tattered awning, jostled by idlers.
The air fills with a triumphant blare of trumpets and drums. One might think General An-Shu was returning in glory rather than scuttling back to Chunming like a wounded fox to its lair. He rides at the head of his elite guard. The General’s back is straight, his face resolute. He is remorseless, a beacon of discipline. Others in the crowd sense it too and some even manage a ragged cheer.
General An-Shu only holds my attention for a moment.
I am drawn to the carriages that follow, filled by his closest advisers. Then I shrink back. The occupant of one carriage is familiar, yet strange with age. The years between our last meeting melt. Beneath his grizzled features lies a discarded face. I remember a young man consumed by purpose and ambition, dressed in an advocate’s gaudy silks. Over thirty years ago when he was the Lawyer Yuan Chu-Sou.
I hide, pretending to fuss over my shoes. Then the carriage has passed. I follow it with my gaze.
‘Who is that gentleman?’ I ask
a fellow loiterer. ‘What relation does he bear to the General?’
The stranger narrows his eyes. Perhaps my question is too earnest. We are all afraid of uttering an unguarded word.
‘That is His Highness’s chief adviser. I do not know his name, sir.’
But I do. Or a name he once used. Given the disreputable court of the Emperor-in-waiting who can guess what he styles himself now?
The head of the column proceeds to the Prefect’s residence and the battalions that follow inspire less awe.
Ranks of exhausted, grimy, wounded men, half dead on their ill-shod feet. Hungry soldiers with little left to lose, yet surprisingly orderly.
*
The first regiment passes. I press to the front of the crowd, seeking a single face in the ranks of tramping men.
Then comes the second regiment, if that is not too grand a name for so depleted a force. Finally, the Winged Tigers enter Chunming. I can feel my breath labouring. A company marches past, then another. Suddenly I am limp with relief. Youngest Son rides at the head of his company, the same scum who troubled Wei. I almost cheer. He appears unwounded. He has no eyes for the crowd, lost in a bitter world of thought. My heart reaches out to him until he too has passed. I return wearily to the house by the ramparts and bolt the door of my room.
All the next day I sit waiting for word from Youngest Son.
Without doubt he has many pressing duties: ensuring his men are fed and the wounded are tended, that new weapons are found to replace those lost or broken. Does he not owe a duty to me? One might answer that question many ways.
I descend to the garden at dusk and sit a little apart from the other prisoners. We are much reduced. Every day one of our number is arrested and dragged off to face treason charges. Not one of the accused has returned. We live in constant anxiety, afraid to speak in case some spy reports it.
The sergeant appears. I rise in a flutter of spirits. Behind him stands Youngest Son.
‘Where is Lord Yun Cai?’ bellows the sergeant.
His eyes fall upon me.
‘You lot,’ he barks at the other prisoners. ‘Clear the garden. Lord Yun Cai’s visitor wishes to speak to him alone.’
Taming Poison Dragons Page 44