The Old Dragon's Head

by Justin Newland

  “This is bad karma,” Wen said.

  The Duke nodded. Even Bolin felt a quiver of fear run across his shoulders.

  “There’s more to say,” the Duke added, gritting his teeth. “The body was wearing what remained of what appeared to be a Robe of Descent.”

  “Wait a moment,” Wen said, blowing out a soft whistle. “The Robe of Decent is only worn by monks – specifically by a Celestial Tao Master. It’s they who are conversant with the Taoist Magic Script.”

  After a moment’s ominous silence, Wen asked, “How long do you estimate the body had been there?”

  There was another long pause, before the Duke uttered the fateful words, “Twenty years.”

  “Cheng was a Celestial Master, wasn’t he?”

  “Yes, he was,” the Duke said. “A body can only be preserved for that long if he was a holy man. That’s why we thought it must be Abbot Cheng. Alas, there are more bad tidings. Whoever buried him wanted to humiliate him.”

  “Humiliate? How do you know?” Wen asked.

  “The Bagua medallion was stuffed into his mouth,” the Duke replied.

  “So, Cheng was… murdered?” Wen spluttered.

  “It looks that way,” the Duke said.

  “I knew him well,” Wen said, his voice quivering with emotion. “He was a man of peace. Why would anyone want to murder – and humiliate – him?”

  “That’s what I’d like to know,” Bolin muttered.

  CHAPTER 32

  The Mongol Carpet

  Apart from our shadows, we have no friends.

  THE SECRET HISTORY OF THE MONGOLS

  Once Bolin had finished his duty, the late afternoon sun was setting and the shadow of the Great Wall was growing longer and colder. Soon the curfew would chase the people off the streets. With the awful news of the discovery of the murdered body of Abbot Cheng, the coming night seemed darker and more foreboding than before. If a man of the Tao couldn’t roam the hills in safety, who could?

  Bolin rushed into the market to help his father. They both bemoaned the sad tidings. They packed away the fish stall in studied silence. When they finished, his father said with typical brevity, “It’s coming closer.”

  Did he mean the vault, or the Lantern Festival? Bolin’s mind raced with possibilities.

  “It’s your birthday in two days. Have you forgotten?” His father’s voice was as dry as the sands of the Gobi.

  “No… No, of course not,” he stammered, feeling ashamed of his suspicious mind.

  Yes, in two days, he’d have lived twenty years. What had he achieved? A struggle to come to terms with who he was and a stubborn refusal of the opportunity offered in a mysterious letter. He wished he had never crossed Luli’s threshold. But the searing headaches, visions and dreams were as real as the three pulses in his wrist. He had to deal with them and what was in that letter. For the moment, he had to get onto the Laolongtou, raise that black and white granite slab by the Stone Tablet and gain entry to the vault beneath.

  His father broke his musing, “I saw Luli earlier. She was distraught.”

  Bolin felt sick. Was it because he refused the letter? He was about to confess, when his father said, “Magistrate Gang found Ru guilty. He’s to have his hand severed in the punishment yard in two days.”

  The news gave him a lump in his throat. How could they do that to Ru? When he was growing up, he and Ru, who was about five or six years older than him, sat together in the little school run by Jin. Ru may have been mute and slow to learn, but he could run as fast as the wind that blew off the steppes. Bolin had fond memories of them stealing apples from the orchard without Jin seeing and galloping round the temple’s gardens using branches of trees as make-believe horses.

  Sometimes, in rueful moments, Bolin would try and imagine what his friend would be like if his father, Heng, hadn’t fallen from the wall. That day, the gods had stolen Ru’s wits from him. And now, because of a trumped-up criminal charge, Ru was likely to lose a hand as well.

  “I… I wish I could have been there to help,” Bolin said. He bent down to stroke a thin black tabby that was sniffing around the fish stall.

  “Here’s something,” his father said and dropped a few scraps of fish on the ground. What a benevolent soul he was. The morsel of fish was immediately surrounded by the local scavenging cats, ribs protruding through roughened fur.

  “You’re too generous, Father,” Bolin said.

  His father replied, “‘Give and you shall receive’, it’s written in Heaven. That’s the great mystery; the Tao always provides. Look, I’m still here aren’t I? And so are you.”

  There were loud cries from the other side of the market place. At first, Bolin thought it was the arrival of the militia to enforce the curfew, but it turned out to be a dispute near the market stall where the thief in the yellow bandanna had knocked over Ru. Two men were shouting at each other. Guanting was one of them, gesticulating from behind his stall. On it was displayed an array of carpets, from small, intricate mats, to elaborate, tasselled rugs. The finest was a large Mongolian carpet, its snarling Blue Wolf motif, outlined with silver tassels.

  The customer was complaining, “Two hundred strings of cash! I wouldn’t pay that for a roll of the finest mulberry silk, let alone a roll of one of your Mongol carpets.”

  In his colourful caftan, Guanting was a bear of a man. He leaned forwards and said in a voice quivering with a surprising degree of emotion, “This, my friend, is the most special Mongolian carpet in the world.”

  “How is that?” the customer scoffed, a squat man with a pinched look as tight as a closed oyster.

  Guanting ran the flat of his palm along it and said, “The Great Khan himself once owned this carpet and used it to dispose of any unruly nobles.”

  “Dispose?”

  “Oh,” Guanting asked, “you don’t know about Mongol carpets?”

  The customer shook his head ruefully. Guanting needed no further invitation. “In the Mongol culture, any nobleman who showed disloyalty to the Khan was executed in a way that left no external marks on the cadaver. To achieve this feat of respect, the condemned man was rolled up in the midst of a long carpet, which suffocated him to death.”

  “Very interesting,” the customer sniffed. “But that’s nothing to do with the price of rice,” and stomped off in a huff.

  “Come back,” Guanting cried, but the customer had gone, swallowed by the wall’s glowering shadows. The soldiers entered and harried the people to leave. The market emptied.

  “Pack it away!” Guanting said in a flash of anger. The merchant’s servants scampered around like dogs with their tails between their legs and dumped the carpets onto a nearby cart. The last to leave, Guanting grabbed his knapsack and got into his sedan chair, which was soon carried off by his porters, Big Qiang leading the way.

  For some reason unbeknownst to him, Bolin decided to follow the merchant’s entourage. If he was caught outside after the curfew, it was a night in the cells and a face-to-face with Thousand Cuts, neither of which was appealing. But he knew these streets and alleyways like the back of his hand. Sliding between the shadows, he followed Guanting along Sheepwash Street and down North Way. Soon he was in the seedier part of town, an alley where ribald and revelry run amuck. Guanting lumbered out of the sedan chair and stood beneath the dull light of a lantern. There he waited until a man slunk out of the shadows. At first, they were whispering. Then Guanting raised his voice, “I’ve brought what you demanded.”

  The other man looked to see if anyone was around. Bolin caught sight of an officer’s uniform and insignia.

  Friend or no, the officer growled at Guanting, “It’s not enough. Your silver’s passed through the hands of the magistrate’s office. It’s tainted. They’ll follow you. At the moment, they’re so suspicious that the next thing you know, they’ll arrest the moon beams. I’m telling you, this
enterprise is riven with danger.”

  “What are you saying?” Guanting asked.

  “I want more. Twenty five taels more. Or the deal’s off.”

  Before Guanting could reply, a knot of soldiers rushed into the alley, shouting, “Curfew. Indoors. Now.”

  Bolin dived under a covered wagon.

  The militia harried the peddlers, vagrants and other loiterers. By the time they had moved everyone along, the alley was as dark as it was deserted.

  Bolin had a feeling in his gut. Something wasn’t right. Who was that officer? And what exactly was he selling to Guanting?

  CHAPTER 33

  The Taoist Magic Script

  May you live in interesting times.

  ANCIENT CHINESE CURSE

  Luli closed the shutters of the room, lifted the frayed edge of the carpet and opened the trap door. Under normal circumstances, whenever she made use of the tunnel, Ru would have stood behind her, wearing that terrible look of resignation on his face she knew so well; the one that screamed in silence at her, ‘why aren’t you taking me with you?’ Then he would replace the carpet behind her. But these were anything but normal circumstances. She could close the trap door, but the carpet would have to wait until she returned – if she returned.

  How terrible that Cheng had been found, half eaten by animals. The news had shocked her to the core and she was still shaking as she clambered down the vertical steps. What a dreadful time she lived in, her husband dead, her son traumatised and sentenced for a crime he didn’t commit. Heaven bled for such injustice.

  Her lantern sent flickering shadows along the tunnel wall, intermittent light and dark. The familiar smell of earth hit her nostrils. It always smelled like a grave to her. She headed north along the tunnel, avoiding the mice, moles, worms and other creepy-crawlies. She had known about the tunnels since they were built. Over the years, she’d explored every nook and cranny of the network.

  General Tiande had built the Bagua tunnels at the same time as the Shanhaiguan Fortress above ground. Why expend all that effort? She’d never seen any soldiers using them. Its entry and exit points were all outside the fortress walls. Nothing was stored in them and they had no strategic or military value. What was their purpose? Perhaps the Bagua tunnels were to do with the Tao? That was the most likely explanation. She puffed out her cheeks, frustrated that she had yet to tease out the answer.

  On occasion, the tunnels took on a life of their own. At certain points, she sensed huge concentrations of supernatural ch’i. That was when it felt like she was wading through a thick cloud of the stuff. Perhaps Dong would discover more from his search of the temple archives.

  Climbing up the vertical shaft to the temple, she opened the trap door. The darkness of the night kissed the darkness leeching out of the tunnels. The coast was clear and she sneaked out into a rarely used part of the temple, made her way to the front gate and rang the bell. The gate swung open and a friendly face peered round from the other side.

  “Welcome,” Jin said, with a broad smile revealing his rotten teeth. He took her to a room with a shrine, where Dong was meditating. When he’d finished, they went to his chambers. Jin served them hot tea.

  “We’ve had a double blow,” Dong admitted. “The flow of the Tao is against us; first your son and now Abbot Cheng.”

  “I knew Cheng twenty years ago. He was kind to me,” Luli said proudly. “I can’t imagine his body, gnawed by wild animals. It’s horrible even to contemplate it.” She wiped away a tear; but not her grief.

  “I’m going to find out who did that to him.” Dong sounded like a demon of vengeance. He got up as quick as you like and a flailing arm knocked one of the lanterns to the floor, snuffing out the candle. Another light extinguished in their lives.

  “Heaven will punish the wrongdoer and his family until karma is restored,” Dong said, his fist clenched white with rage. “I’ve sent a monk with one of the Duke’s men to the burial site to bless his body and conduct a proper reburial.”

  “That’s good,” she murmured. “But the pall of misfortune that hangs over my family won’t lift. Ru’s punishment is too awful to imagine and I’ve two days to save him.”

  “I know,” Dong said. “But listen. The tide is turning. Finding Abbot Cheng’s body is a breakthrough. You’ll see; next, we’ll discover who murdered him and what happened to Wing. Then the mystery of the consecration ceremony will unravel.”

  “I hope so.” She wanted to believe him.

  “Your family’s misfortune will also be resolved. Have faith and believe in the benevolence of the gods.”

  “I’d like to see some benevolence from humans,” she whispered, stifling a tear.

  “Listen, I have some good news,” he said, rubbing Cheng’s Bagua medallion between his palms. “I’ve found something in the archives.” Pointing at two scrolls on the desk, he opened the first. On the title page was a single character; a calligraphy exemplar of the Taoist Magic Script. “Recognise that?” Next to it, he placed Cheng’s Medallion.

  “It’s the same character,” she exclaimed. “Then what’s written in this scroll?”

  “You may well ask,” Dong said, with an air of excitement. “It’s nothing less than the text of the ceremony of consecration of the Laolongtou.”

  “That is an omen,” she said, bouncing with joy. “Speak the text out loud and invite the dragon back. That will be some homecoming.”

  “I wish it were that simple,” Dong said. He hesitated long enough for her to believe him.

  “Why isn’t it?”

  “Only the Dragon Master can conduct the ceremony.”

  “That’s all the more reason to find Wing.” Luli fingered the scroll like she was touching the sacred bones of a Taoist Immortal. Then she asked, “What’s in the other scroll?”

  “I’ll tell you,” Dong murmured. “Jin, please close the door.”

  He had her full attention.

  “Good, I don’t want any flapping ears to hear this.” He spoke in a soft, intense voice. “The other scroll speaks of an ancient prophecy, which predicted that one day the temple would host a new influence from Heaven, a theme endorsed when the Zhendong Gate was called The First Pass under Heaven. The gate is where spirit energy, high ch’i, enters the world for the first time. It is pristine. That’s the legend. That is why the temple was built here in the first place. I believe the term ‘Eight Immortals’ refers to the eight points of the Bagua tunnels.”

  “Remarkable,” Luli said, nodding with enthusiasm.

  “It could go anywhere on earth first, but it arrives here in the Zhongguo. That’s why we’re the Middle Kingdom, the centre of the world. That’s why the Dragon Emperor is the Emperor of all people, not only the Chinese. At the birth of the Ming Dynasty, Abbot Cheng, my predecessor, divined that a pristine influence was on the horizon. It was destined to improve and develop not only the Chinese, but all the peoples on earth. Over the centuries, the gods have tried in many ways to elevate the human race. They’ve sent philosophers like Confucius, Mencius and Lao Tzu and saviours like the Buddha. Alas, so far they’ve failed to eradicate man’s barbaric ways.”

  “So, this new influence,” she said, not quite believing what she was hearing, “is another attempt by Heaven?”

  “I believe so,” Dong shrugged. “The seeds of this new influence will gather apace over the centuries to come. The scroll even describes it – it’s shaped like a bejewelled sceptre. Here, I’ll read you this part, ‘The sceptre is covered in shining gems, translucent like gods, where each gem represents a new, previously unknown form of human genius. Its name, whispered in the corridors of Heaven, is the Emperor’s Mace.’”

  Luli sat in the glow of the revelation. “What does it mean, this Emperor’s Mace?” she asked.

  “It means that Heaven has not abandoned the human race and that it’s still trying to help us. It also refers t
o the saying, ‘May you live in interesting times’.”

  “I thought that saying was a blessing,” she admitted.

  “No, on the contrary.” Dong was adamant.

  “Why?” she said, scrunching up her face.

  “The Emperor’s Mace has ushered in a benevolent time of religious quickening,” Dong explained. “For hundreds of years before that, there had been no quickening, no supreme ch’i, no elevation – only stasis, inertia, no growth. When nothing was happening spiritually, the best people could hope for was to live in interesting times.”

  “So that saying is really a curse,” Luli said.

  “Yes!”

  Luli felt her heart beating like a drum. In a few short moments, her life once more bristled with hope. She was not alone. She could save Ru from Gang, the Hammer of Shanhaiguan. And she could help Dong in service to the Emperor’s Mace. Imagine – new forms of human genius, never seen before.

  She could dedicate her life to that.

  CHAPTER 34

  Kong, the Beggar King

  A happy union with wife and children is like the music of lutes and harps!

  When there is concord among brethren, the harmony is delightful and enduring.

  Thus, may you regulate your family and enjoy the delights of wife and children!

  THE DOCTRINE OF THE MEAN

  Squatting with his back against the alley wall, Feng blew hard on his fingers. He was unsure if that made them colder or warmer, his breath was so misty. The main source of warmth was the beggar to his right, who stank of rotten fish, sour wine and encrusted faeces. Unperturbed by these minor inconveniences, the man was snoring as blithely as the Buddha.