Wuzhou came straight up to him and asked, “Is he all right? Have you seen him?”
Bolin reassured him. “Your brother’s in the temple infirmary. The monks will care for him there. He’s taken a heavy beating, but look, you know him, he’s as tough as bamboo. He’ll recover – and he’s a rat. You think they’re dead and they come around, defiant to the last. They’re life’s great survivors.”
“True, but I’m going to sort out that devil Gang, once and for all,” he thundered.
“Wait,” Bolin said, holding him back. “You can’t. Lay a finger on him and they’ll lock you up and beat you like they did Cui.”
“I don’t know,” Wuzhou shook his head wearily. “How can he get away with this?”
“I’m afraid he can,” Bolin said. “He has all the power here now. He even controls the commandant. We must bide our time. Everyone knows what he did was wrong, intolerable, heinous. We’ll find a way to get to him.”
“All right, but I’m going to see my brother as soon as I’ve finished my duty here,” Wuzhou said. His eyes wore an angry, empty stare, like an exhausted fighter.
From now on, Bolin thought, things would be different. The beating was an irrevocable act, from which there was no return. Things would never be the same again, not only for Cui and Wuzhou, but also for Gang and for him. The bitter taste in his gullet was exacerbated by an equally bitter north wind blowing off the steppes. He wrapped himself in his hemp winter coat and stooped to pick up more debris from the road.
In the middle of the afternoon, Wuzhou shouted, “Hi. Hi!” Then he pointed to the low rolling hills to the east.
The guards peered into the haze. There was movement on the limits of vision, so it was impossible to discern who it was – Mongol traders, soothsayers, or perhaps mercenaries selling their skilled bow and horsemanship to the highest bidder.
“There they are. I can see something,” Wuzhou said.
The guards craned their necks. Some of the low cloud resting on the peaks of the Yanshan Mountains rolled down onto the plain, obscuring their view. The mists drifted, creating odd, ribbed shapes. The winds sculpted the mists into animals, there, the profile of a dog, no, a wolf. The guards pointed at it.
“How can the air form itself into the shape of a wolf?” yelled one, his head clasped in his hands.
Another replied, “Hah! That’s no accident. Instead, you should ask ‘who has the power to conjure a wolf from mere clouds’?”
And a third shouted, “How can we defeat a foe who commands the very elements?”
The spectre of fear grabbed the guards around the throat, like the Blue Wolf had become incarnate and was about to rip them apart. The wolf was already in the air, usurping the towers of Heaven. Now it left its spoor on the earth.
As quickly as it had appeared, the mists shifted again and the airy wolf was gone. Then, another gust of wind and the play of air and moisture came to a stuttering finale; the grey waves of the Bohai Sea swallowed the mists, leaving a clear view.
On the far distant ridge were hundreds of men, tiny against the huge backdrop of the horizon.
“Who are they?” he asked.
No one wanted to answer that question except Wuzhou, who shouted, “Call the commandant.”
It wasn’t long before Tung scaled the steps of the watchtower, Major Renshu in tow.
“We’ve the strongest fortifications in the Zhongguo here, so what’s all the fuss about?” he wanted to know, squinting at the distant manoeuvres. “What do you make of it, Major?”
“Too far away to identify the flags,” Renshu replied. “Whoever they are, they’ve taken up a strong position on that ridge. And from that trail of smoke, they’re making camp. Could they be ours?”
“Doubt it,” Tung said. “If they were a remnant of the prince’s army, he would have alerted us to their movements when he passed through here. And why would they make camp, when they are a short march away from a solid roof over their heads? No, it doesn’t make sense.”
“Then who are they?” the major asked the vital question.
“Until we know otherwise, we treat them as a hostile force under the banner of the Blue Wolf. I want the garrison on a war footing. Station the Han Regiment on the walls and battlements. Equipment checked. Troops battle ready. Officers alert. Got it?”
“Yes, Commandant,” the major replied, stiff and correct. Then he added, “Is it the Mongols?”
“Let’s find out. Despatch a search party,” Tung replied, pacing the road like a restless tiger.
“Wuzhou,” the major called him over. “Take five men and report back on the enemy’s dispositions.”
Wuzhou’s chin hit the floor. Bolin could see the man was upset and disappointed not to visit his brother. Bolin grabbed him by the elbow and said, “Don’t worry, I’ll tell Cui what you are doing. Just come back safe.”
Were they Mongols – or not? Wuzhou would find out, one way or another.
If they were a hostile force, then Luli’s earlier prediction about an attack from the east was proving correct.
Surely there was nothing to worry about, since whatever the size of the force opposing them, the Chinese possessed an overwhelming superiority and boasted the monumental strength of the Shanhaiguan Fortress? Despite all that, the stench of fear along the ramparts was palpable.
Bolin watched the far-off movements with the wary eyes of a hawk.
There were scores of fires, their smoke snaking up to meet the grey cloud overhead. This had been a grey day all around; the dragon failed to appear, his grey-haired friend suffered at the hands of a maniac and a mysterious host threatened the grey walls of Shanhaiguan.
CHAPTER 39
The Vault
The Tao is profound and invisible, it exists everywhere and anywhere.
This original nature is the eternal law.
To know nature’s law is to be enlightened.
THE TAO TE CHING
Since his night-time escapade with Kong, Feng had decided to make himself a disguise, in the form of crutch. To his surprise, it came with an unexpected free gift; a cloak of cultural invisibility. It was as if he was a ghost – because when he limped down the street, no one paid him the slightest attention. From the moment that Precious and Granny Dandan strolled by him without so much as a backward glance, he knew he’d attained the nirvana of a beggar’s disguise.
All day long, he had racked his brains. How could he reach the vault below the Laolongtou? The best he could come up with was to spend his last bronze cash on a coil of rope. That was a start.
He had even persuaded Kong to miss the dragon players’ performance, so the two of them could hide in the long, salt-laden grasses on the beach and scout the Laolongtou. Though the longer he watched, the more impossible the task appeared. The guards were stationed by the Stone Guardian and around the ramparts. They kept a close watch on all access points, including the dunes. The tide was rushing in and would soon cover the gap he’d seen in the ‘nose’ of the dragon.
He was about to surrender to the demons of karma when there was a hue and cry further along the wall. And lo and behold! All the guards rushed off towards the main fortress, leaving the Laolongtou unprotected!
“This is karma. Now’s our chance,” Feng said, making to scale the wall of the Laolongtou.
“You sure?” Kong screwed up his face in anguish. “You know what Master Wen is like. He protects that wall like it was his virgin daughter. If we’re arrested for trespassing, he’ll hang us up by our thumbs.”
“Stop fussing,” Feng snapped. “There’s no one up there, not even a Blue Wolf.”
They stalked across the dunes. Kong lassoed the rope onto the parapet. It gripped first time. Kong’s good at that, Feng thought. Kong seemed good at a lot of things. With the nimbleness of a monkey, Feng scaled the rope then peered along the ramparts. Not a soul. He gestu
red for Kong to follow and slid over the parapet.
Finally, he had attained the sacred ground of the Laolongtou. They hadn’t long before the gap in the brickwork would be covered by the incoming tide. Feng glanced at his father’s plan to confirm the vault’s location and moved to the ramparts right above it.
Kong noticed the map and asked, “What you got there? Can I see?”
This was strange. Kong had already spied on a couple of traitors in the wine bar, he was an expert with a rope and now he wanted to look at his map. Who was he? For a beggar, he seemed surprisingly well-informed. Feng was not the only one with secrets. Still, he could trust no one.
“No!” he blurted out, rolling up the scroll and tucking it back in the lacquer box. “If you want to help me, tie the rope round this parapet.”
“Why? What are you going to do?” Kong asked. “Oh, I see. You’re going to climb down the Old Dragon’s snout.”
Feng nodded and tied the other end of the rope around his midriff.
“What’s down there then?” Kong’s said, peering over the parapet.
“If the soldiers return, pull three times on the rope. Can you do that?”
Kong’s answer was a scowl and a swift nod.
Feet flat against the stone end of the dragon’s head, palms gripping the frozen rope, Feng scaled down the wall. Below him, the waters of the Bohai Sea heaved and swelled and small chunks of ice floated amidst the grey white waves. He descended the outside of the dragon’s snout, dangling midway between Heaven and earth.
Kong called out, “Feng, you there?”
“Yes, what is it?” His feet slipped and he hung onto the rope to prevent himself falling into the mire.
“The guards are coming back. I can’t get caught here. Sorry, I’m off,” Kong shouted.
“Wait, help me,” Feng yelled back. No answer. He had abandoned him, like everyone else.
Hanging on to the rope, he lowered himself down the side of the dragon’s snout. There were shouts from the battlements. Someone pulled on the end of the rope. Soldiers. He let go of the rope in time and inserted his hands and feet into crevices in the stone work. The rope dropped by him and fell into the churning sea.
He gripped the vertical rock face. The rope was still attached to his waist and the other end was trailing in the cold waves of the Bohai Sea. He felt his hands giving way. A rock whizzed by his head, missing him by a whisker. The soldiers were throwing stones at him. He squirreled down the side of the rock face, grabbed onto a lower ledge, from where he hauled himself into the opening of the vault.
He landed in a heap on the floor. His hands and knees were covered in a slimy mix of mud and seaweed. The vault was swathed in shadows and he waited while his eyes adjusted to the dim light. A wave broke over the rim of the opening, soaking him to the skin. It was a timely reminder – the tide would soon submerge the vault and him along with it. He had to move before the soldiers grappled their way down the outer wall towards him.
The map had shown the location of the Jade Chamber, where the Laolong was supposed to be imprisoned. So where was the entrance to it? He slid his hands along the inner wall of the vault, feeling the rock surface for the outline of a doorway. Eventually, he found it. A deep vertical slit in the wall and another one parallel to it. This was it. This was the ‘door’ to the Jade Chamber. Hah! It had no handle, so how did it open?
From above, he heard cries. “Feng! You down there!” It was the soldiers.
He pushed hard against the ‘door’ and all he moved was a piece of seaweed hanging off the rock. There was nothing in the ‘door’ to hang onto – like his life, really. It was sealed. There had to be a way. The chilling waters lapped at his feet. The tide was encroaching. With the size of the swell, it would fill quickly and he’d drown.
A noise behind him. A rope hung down by the outer vault opening. And another. From above, shouts. “Climb down there.”
Feng edged towards the vault opening. With the sea surging in front of him, he peered up at the ramparts. Soldiers were scaling down the dragon’s snout. A face appeared over the parapet. Gang.
Damn.
He was so close.
CHAPTER 40
Grappling with Heaven
If wood rubs against wood, flames spring up.
When metal is placed next to fire, it melts.
When yin and yang go awry,
The harmony of Heaven and earth is upset.
THE BOOK OF CHUANG TZU
Gang was well-satisfied with his day’s work. Thanks to an unexpected tip-off, he’d arrested the fugitive Feng. Who would have guessed his mother’s maid, Precious, would betray him not once, but twice? What a coup. He could use Feng to trade benefits from the prince. Or he could have done with him and sentence him to death. Oh, he did enjoy wielding the mace of imperial power and sprinkling the benevolent embers of his decisions over all and sundry. After beating Cui to a pulp, he had considered halting his quest to emasculate the Chinese imperial machine, a lapse that was only temporary. He did enjoy being the chrysalis of revenge and, well, the Chinese were so accommodating that he felt obliged to wreak as much havoc on them as was possible in a single lifetime. They had wrecked his life. Karma dictated that he should wreck theirs. Perhaps he would come back as an avenging demon and terrorise them again. What a delicious thought!
On his return from arresting Feng, Gang had climbed the ramp up to the Zhendong Tower to gloat at the plight of the guards, who were trembling like leaves in the wind. The crisis that Altan had predicted was bubbling up like lava in a volcano, ready to explode in an eruption of gore and pain. In truth, the timid Chinese guards were right to be afraid. While he had witnessed the spectral horrors that Altan could unleash, they had not. The Mongolian shaman was conjuring spirits and making them dance to his prophetic tune.
Gang taunted the guards, first with false encouragement. “You’re so brave. The Mongols will be repulsed by your waves of courage,” he said, as the sarcasm floated over them like clouds of sea fog.
No one replied. That was a new development, no doubt arising from him giving Cui a thoroughly-deserved thrashing. The incident had earned him notoriety, a reward he relished.
Because now, no one dared challenge him.
From his sleeve, he plucked his childhood bamboo flute, the one he’d rescued from his burning home many years ago. ‘Red bandannas’? Red flames, more like. He would never forget the memory of his father plunging to the ground, an arrow in his back; the terrified screams of his mother and sister as they were raped by the red bandannas, before the house was put to the torch. Who would have thought that old Cui, a wastrel of a soldier, would be delivered up to him on a platter? At last, the gods of revenge were shining on him.
His angry fingers moved over the holes, the flute yielding a reluctant melody. The rage stilled in his heart and a mellifluous tune flared from the embers of his memory. He fiddled on and started to play a jaunty tune. The guards gave him cold frowns and narrowed eyes. Their nervous, disgruntled looks told him his ploy was working as well as sweetmeat.
Again, the guards pointed east. Something caught their febrile attention. He stopped playing to take a look. Waves of ch’i were building around the fortress, infecting both wall and warrior. No, it wasn’t another thunderstorm. It was similar to that, an increase in pressure, making the temples pound, the throat tight. Some mighty power was about to burst through Heaven into the earthly realm.
He scanned the horizon for clues. Wisps of smoke rose into the air from the hundreds of fires on the distant ridge. Even the thick-skinned guards sensed an imminent threat. Then one of them yelled, “Get away from me!”
The poor man was as pale as the snows on the peaks of the Yanshan Mountains.
With an air of disbelief, the Commandant Tung asked, “What’s the matter?”
“No. Stop! It’s attacking me!” the guard cried. Brandish
ing his sabre, he slashed left and right, like he was fending off a wild animal. There was nothing. He was slashing at thin air.
“What’s he seeing that we’re not?” Tung asked with a furrowed brow.
“He’s terrified,” Gang said, with as much composure as he could muster. He guessed this was Altan’s work. The master shaman was conducting a superlative performance and he had a front seat.
“Disarm him, before he kills someone,” Tung ordered.
The guard swiped at invisible shapes in the air. His face was drawn into a heavy scowl, his body hunched against some omnipotent unseen threat. Cutting the air in two, he swore a well-known protective oath against demons. Everyone recognised it. The man was seeing devils in the air that no one else could.
Gang loved every moment. It was comic; the bewildered officers huddling around their earnest leader, the guards petrified to move against one of their own and yet equally scared to bludgeon the air itself. Besides, how could they? What would they do? Turn into a cloud? Fizzle out? Gang struggled to suppress a smirk.
“Get off me,” the guard cried, slashing his sabre into the still afternoon air. He seemed more afraid of the demons than of the guards who closed in a ring around him. With a lunge, he forced the guards back. Again, they edged forwards, he thrust at them and so the dance continued, back and forth. They cornered him, his back to the battlements. His lips were pulled into a demonic grimace.
“There’s nothing to be afraid of. Lay down your sword.” Tung tried to reason with him.
The guard slashed again at the air, cried out loud and arched back, as if an invisible giant had plucked him off the wall and jettisoned him backwards with the force of ten horses.
Gang watched the guard tumble though the air, twisting and turning, a man unhooked from his element, a fallen being. All the way down, he yelled, one long piercing scream, loud enough to wake the ancestors. His body thumped into the far bank of the moat and laid prostrate, arms akimbo, eyes staring back up at them.
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