The Old Dragon's Head

by Justin Newland

  Gang smiled to himself. Like putting two starving rats in a cage, it was that easy to foment distrust and suspicion between prince and emperor. How he had delighted in convincing the commandant to enforce a curfew. The jails were already overflowing. Night trade had ground to a halt, arresting the flow of taxes to the imperial coffers. He would have liked to stop and relish the spectacle of confusion and dissent, except he was late for his mysterious rendezvous: ‘The Zhendong Gate: fourth night watch.’

  He halted the sedan chair a stone’s throw from the gate and sent Sheng and his porters back to the Yamen. He didn’t want any witnesses to whatever was going to transpire.

  Every time he stood in the dark, damp, yin shadows of the Zhendong Gate, he couldn’t help but think of the extraordinary words on the plaque above its outer arch: The First Pass under Heaven. What did that say about the Chinese? That their gate was really the first arrival point for any Heavenly influence? Did Heaven reserve its finest for the Chinese? It was almost as laughable as the legend associated with the Taoist temple. The Chinese even characterised themselves as ‘yang’ and everyone else as ‘yin’.

  What about the Zhongguo? What a startling concept! Was the Middle Kingdom really the centre of civilisation? Had the Lord of Resplendent Heaven chosen the Emperor of China as his supreme representative on earth – to govern all humanity? If it was not so absurd, it would fit neatly into a comic opera!

  One day, such hubris would bring the Chinese to their knees, an event he would relish like no other. On that momentous day, the Yellow Emperor himself would kiss the earth before the Great Khan; just like the last time under Gang’s great hero, Genghis.

  As he marched up to the inner Zhendong Gate, the guards on the battlements rushed to the far side – and out of his line of sight – where they raised a clamour, challenging someone or something outside the gates.

  On the ground, the guards bristled at his arrival. One of them shouted, “Halt!”

  Another grabbed a lit torch from its cradle and thrust it in his face. An officer stepped out of the shadows and calmed the guard, saying, “I will deal with this.” As the guard backed away, the officer bowed to him and said, “Magistrate Gang, an honour to meet you.”

  Peering at his identity tablet, Gang replied, “And you are…? Ah, Major Renshu.”

  “At your service,” the major replied and threw him a quizzical glance.

  Gang guessed he was wondering why a senior official was skulking about in the dead of the night. He muttered by way of excuse, “Couldn’t sleep. What’s happening here, Major?”

  “Riders,” the major said, distracted by more shouts from the outer gate. “There are riders outside the gates.”

  That was intriguing – as was the major’s slight Mongolian tinge to his speech. Either way, Gang had expected to meet Guanting, but perhaps the riders were his rendezvous.

  “I will see for myself,” he said.

  A guard grabbed a torch and led him and the major through the inner gates of the Zhendong Gate. Shadows danced on the arched, moisture-laden walls of the tunnel. Soon Gang could hear the conversation between the guards and the riders, conducted through the thick wooden drawbridge.

  “Let us in,” one of the riders shouted in a thick Mongolian accent. The voice sounded vaguely familiar.

  “Who are you? What do you want?” the major asked.

  “We’re attached to the prince’s cavalry,” a voice replied. Yes, he had heard that voice somewhere before.

  “The prince passed through Shanhaiguan ten days ago. Why didn’t you accompany him then?” the major yelled back.

  “After the battle, the prince gave us orders to scout the enemy and then report their movements. We’re in a hurry to catch the prince, so don’t delay us,” came the testy reply.

  “I won’t,” the major retorted, “as long as it’s true that you act under the prince’s orders.” Then he stuck a bronze gong, the signal to lower the drawbridge. The winch in the gatehouse creaked and groaned and the drawbridge eased to the ground. On the far side of the moat, three men were slumped over their horses. A damp sweat arose from their exhausted steeds, standing motionless with heads bowed. The men wore the hats and loose garments of the steppes and had deep slanted eyes. Plunged deep into their belts were Mongol sabres.

  Gang was nervous. If these were the men with whom he was to meet and they were uncovered as Mongol spies, he might be implicated. He had arrived at the Zhendong Gate at the precise moment of the Mongols’ arrival, a coincidence the major would not have missed.

  As Renshu marched a contingent of guards across the drawbridge, a guard murmured, “Uh, I can smell the mutton from here,” then pinched his nose.

  Gang let out a low growl. He hated any snide remark against the Mongols’ nomadic lifestyle, that of herding sheep from one end of the steppes to another. What was wrong with that? What about the Chinese, with their sedentary, agricultural lifestyle? They thought they were so superior, so high and mighty, they could rule over everyone. Not if he had his way.

  Gang would not forget the insult. He glanced at the man’s identity tablet – Corporal Wuzhou. He wouldn’t forget the name either.

  It did not stop his heart from pounding under his robes. After so many years, he feared his carefully manicured cover was blown. He growled in annoyance. He had so much blood to let to quench his revenge. He let slip a prayer, ‘These Mongols better be who they say they are.’

  The guards encircled the three riders with sabres and frowns drawn. This was not going to end well. A storm was brewing. The major stared into the Mongols’ faces and examined every stroke of every character on their identity tablets, then stood nose to nose with a tall Mongol, whose bearing set him out as their leader.

  “And who exactly are you?” The major said in a voice of challenge and provocation.

  This was it. Gang fingered his dagger. The soldier next to him was that ogre, Wuzhou. He could slit his throat and make a run for it. He was about to unsheathe it, when, the Mongol replied with inordinate pride, “I… am… Altan.”

  Altan? Gang knew that name. That was the voice he had recognised. It was Altan – the Mongol shaman – from twenty years ago. Beneath the grime and sweat of the ride, Gang could see the man’s canny eyes, flitting about, absorbing every nuance of every movement. Altan was an old fox, shrewd and cunning like no other. The many shared memories came flooding back. If anyone could dupe the Chinese, Altan could. He was a past master at it. Gang felt a flood of confidence flow through his veins.

  Then Renshu surprised him, when he said, “Fine, that’s all in order. Do you want bedding for the night?”

  With that, the guards sheathed their sabres and the tension dissipated into the night.

  Gang breathed a huge sigh of relief.

  “No, only water and feed for the horses,” Altan replied, calm as you like, “we’re not stopping. We’ll be on our way again at dawn.”

  The major escorted them to the stables. Gang followed at a distance and waited until Renshu had gone, then joined Altan.

  “That was close,” Gang blurted out.

  “Not so loud,” Altan held his finger over his mouth.

  “Why didn’t the major press you further about your orders?” he asked.

  “Never you mind,” Altan said with a frown. “There’s not much time. Where can we talk?”

  “Follow me,” he said and took Altan to his chambers.

  As soon as they sat down to some wine and dried fruit, he confronted Altan. “Listen, I’m glad to see you again, but you almost landed me in a heap of trouble. I’ve hidden in the long shadows cast by the Chinese imperial system for over twenty years and I’m not about to waste all that toil. Yet as soon as I return to Shanhaiguan, you show up and at the Zhendong Gate. It’s not exactly the best clandestine meeting place. Every Yuan, Wang and Chang has seen us together. Coming here is a huge risk f
or both of us. You’ve already aroused suspicions. There are soldiers, villagers and workers still here from twenty years ago. If they remember me, they’ll remember you.”

  “You worry like an old woman,” Altan scolded him, taking a slug of wine and wiping his mouth with this sleeve. “I’m a shaman. I deal with Heavenly powers. I will always protect my people. You are still one of my people, aren’t you?”

  “Of course,” Gang replied, feeling the heat of the threat. Adding to his discomfort were the shouts and screams of the inmates in the cells across from the chambers.

  “Remember,” Altan went on in that hissing kind of voice. “The last time we collaborated, you trusted my supernatural abilities where Abbot Cheng and Dragon Master Wing were concerned. Since then, I have woven my skills with an even finer thread. So, you can trust them again.”

  Gang paced the floor. Altan had a point. “I believe you. What do you want of me?”

  Altan took a deep breath. “Your help. This time, we’ll finish off the Chinese once and for all.”

  “That, I like the sound of. What’s your plan?”

  “Good,” Altan said. “We are blessed with opportunities. With the prince and his cavalry heading south and the yellow lands red with the fires of civil war, now is the perfect time to fan those flames.”

  “How? I thought the prince defeated the Mongol army?” Gang raised an eyebrow.

  “We were beaten, yes, but a rump escaped. The army is small, but fierce and well-equipped. As soon as I leave this place, I will rejoin them.”

  “Hah! They won’t breach the fortress of Shanhaiguan,” he scoffed.

  “I know that,” Altan scowled. “Do not underestimate the Blue Wolf, especially when wounded. The yellow man sits in judgement on the lands and peoples beyond the pale of civilisation, calling us ‘barbarians’ and ‘mutton-eaters’. What arrogance. But I am Altan. And alongside the Mongol forces, I have prepared a spectral army equipped with supernatural powers, one that need never ride a horse nor lift a sword. It is an army that will rend and demolish our foe without ever taking to the field of battle.”

  Gang puffed out his cheeks. There was no doubt in his mind that Altan was a shaman with a slice of Heaven in his soul and who, twenty years ago, had outwitted both the Dragon Master and the Tao Celestial Master – but to win a battle without a single soldier?

  “How is that possible?” he asked.

  “With deception and subterfuge, all things are possible,” Altan said, beginning to sound like Sun Tzu.

  “Tell me more,” Gang said, leaning forward.

  “You don’t need to know it all,” Altan said, his eyes narrowing in the light of the lantern. “Don’t forget the enduring strength and stealth of the wolf, whose greatest weapon is the element of surprise. You and I have done it before and we can do it again. Still want to collaborate?”

  That was the question. As far as he could glean, helping Altan meant trusting in the man’s supernatural skills. Well, if that was the only option, he was ready. This was the culmination of his life’s work – and Altan’s. Together again after twenty years, they could achieve great things. If anyone could make the plan bear fruit, Altan could.

  “What do you want me to do?”

  “Help the Mongol army breach the Zhendong Gate.”

  “Is that all?” he replied, rolling his eyes. “How do you intend to achieve that?”

  “By blowing it up. There’s already a Mongol merchant in town, looking to purchase explosives.”

  “What’s his name?” he asked.

  “Master Guanting,” Altan said.

  “Ai yi yi! I met him,” Gang said, standing up in excitement. “This is more than a coincidence. It’s an omen. Guanting was in this very chamber, just yesterday,” he said and explained the details of their conversation.

  “Make sure he gets his knapsack back,” Altan said.

  “I will. So Guanting left me the note?”

  “No, but Guanting and his associate Big Qiang will help you achieve our ultimate goal.”

  “Who left the note?”

  “Major Renshu – an officer in the munitions department.”

  “Hah, good. I should have realised he was complicit,” Gang replied with a knowing nod. “He believed your story too easily.”

  “We have allies,” Altan said. “But Renshu wants to be paid for his services, so Guanting had to raise the funds.”

  “I see,” Gang replied, feeling more confident now.

  “There’s one more thing,” Altan said, clenching his fists. “We must destroy the Laolong, the old dragon.”

  “How do you do that? It’s invisible and moves like the wind.”

  “It’s true, a Heavenly beast can’t be killed,” Altan said. “But you can disperse its ch’i so widely that it can never again reform as a dragon, like wood smoke in a tempest. Without the Laolong to guard its frontiers and inspire its troops, the Zhongguo will submit to our armies and we shall rekindle the past glories of the Yuan Dynasty.”

  “Where is the Laolong now?” Gang asked.

  “Where we deposited it twenty years ago,” Altan said with an air of undisguised triumph, “Trapped in the Jade Chamber, the vault beneath the Laolongtou.”

  “Why not leave it there?”

  “It’s too dangerous. I want to splinter its power forever. Now you are here, you can help. I will send word.”

  Gang liked the plan; he liked any plan to annihilate the Chinese. “How can I help?” he asked.

  “We will win the war on earth by first defeating our foe in Heaven. That’s why I have seeded the very air around the fortress with the ch’i of the Blue Wolf. And now you’ve enforced a curfew, fomenting darkness and fear, we have the precise atmosphere we need. As magistrate, you can wreak havoc under the guise of securing the garrison. In the coming days, I will manipulate the Heavenly ch’i in our favour and you will see opportunities to exploit events. When they come, it will be obvious what you have to do.”

  “I hope so,” he replied. That was clear. As clear as anything could be with a shaman like Altan.

  Acting alone, even with all the power he assumed as magistrate, Gang’s ability to hurt the huge Chinese imperial machine was small. Whereas collaborating with Altan made his ability to wreak revenge greater than ever. Together they could bring waves of death not only to the Chinese people but perhaps, by means of some national catastrophe, to the Zhongguo, the Chinese nation. The prospect stirred the embers in his vengeful soul.

  The sound of the dawn watch resonated across the town’s rooftops. The behemoth that was the fortress awoke from its slumber as Altan disappeared into the dim morning vapours.

  CHAPTER 27

  The Crystal Cave

  The Heavens are high above us, the stars are far away.

  If we simply investigate their phenomena,

  We may calculate the date of a solstice a thousand years hence

  Without getting up from our seats.

  THE BOOK OF MENCIUS

  Luli had knelt down and mouthed a silent prayer after the militia left. They had turned her house upside down, finding nothing and no one. The great clodhoppers had disturbed her papers, her altar, the shelving and the furniture and, last but not least, the Heavenly ch’i that attended her humble abode. She spent an age putting things where they belonged and summoning back the errant strands of ch’i.

  At least Feng had escaped. These tunnels were sent by the gods. They had first come to her notice during the original Shanhaiguan construction work. Tiande had come to her Po Office to give her his letters and by accident had left a plan of the fortifications on the table. When seen on the plan, the overlay of the square above-ground fortress on the square tunnels below ground formed an eight-pointed star, which, as every student of the Tao knew, was akin to a huge Bagua charm, hence the name, Bagua tunnels.

  She had
waited until the curfew was lifted, in the hour before dawn. The room was alive with documents, letters and objects, left by the dead for the living to claim. Just like life, she mused; we inherit the crimes, failings and weaknesses of our ancestors and suffer for them through karma. When would the gods grant her a clean scroll on which to write her life’s journey?

  At the first slanting rays of dawn, she walked through the fortress gates. With a misty breath, she wrapped her robe around her chest. Jin was at the temple gate.

  “Ah, so there you are and about time too,” he chided her for her tardiness, even though he couldn’t possibly have known that she was coming. “The Abbot told me to escort you to him.”

  Jin grabbed a lantern and, with determined strides, made his way through the winter gardens, patches of snow still resisting the pale sun. She followed him into the steepled gold and red pagoda at the back of the main temple. She expected him to head up the spiral staircase to the upper floors, but he surprised her by leading her through a hidden door. Where was he taking her?

  Down a ramp and along a dark and narrow corridor, they reached a viewing gallery overlooking a cavernous chamber bathed in milky white light.

  “What is this place?” she asked, her voice like a breeze through the branches of a tree.

  “This is the crystal cave,” Jin replied, although that was a mere label and told her little about its function.

  The air in the cave was suffused with thousands of cobwebs of ch’i, thin strands looping from one corner to the other. The cave was vibrant, volatile and full of foreboding like the calm before a storm. Her senses quickened; she was excited by this remarkable concentration of power.

  Dong must have been below the edge of the gallery where she stood, because he was hidden from her direct line of sight, but she could see him reflected in the crystal walls in front of her. Dressed in purple and silver raiment and a black tile hat, the Abbot ignored her arrival and continued reading from a scroll. His words echoed around the walls, but they were neither Chinese, nor any language she knew. In response to her frown, Jin explained, “he’s reading from Taoist Magic Script.”