Breaking Bamboo (21 page)

‘I never charge fees for a neighbour.’

Widow Mu continued to fan herself.

‘It is strange you mention the Mongols,’ she said. ‘Last night Lan Tien woke up crying and said the barbarians were spying on her.’

He shot her a sharp glance. Was there reproach in Widow Mu’s tone? He could not be sure.

‘She will sleep well tonight,’ he said, hastily. ‘I will send Chung over with an infusion and an amulet I have found useful in such cases. You must wave it over Lan Tien’s forehead five times.’

Widow Mu looked suspicious, even while she bowed with every sign of gratitude.

‘It is kind of you to remember us, sir. What with so many changes in your household.’

‘Ah,’ said Shih. ‘Yes.’

‘I take it Madam Cao is happy with the changes?’

An insolent question! Here was proof his wife had been gossiping. Soon everyone in Water Basin Ward would become experts on their intimate business.

‘Five times over the forehead,’ he repeated. ‘And ensure the blinds are kept lowered at morning and evening, lest day or dusk gather in the rafters and confuse your daughter’s sleep.’

Shih left, refusing her offer of a dumpling. He had done all he could. As ever, it did not feel enough.

*

He went to the East Market to buy merit. On the ground known as Lone Willow, three criminals’ heads were being fixed to hooks dangling from the market gates. A dozen others grinned in various states of decay.

Nearby stood a pond surrounded by a maze of stalls. Here monks sold lucky spells and blessing-merchants tended golden carp in wooden troughs, scooping them out with long-handled nets. Shih selected a fat one, its scales dappled silver and grey.

Chanting a short sutra, the merchant reverently placed it in a square bucket painted with favourable symbols.

Dr Shih prayed for merit in this life and the next as he set it free in the pond. For a moment, the fish quivered as though stunned, then vanished into the dark water with a flick of its tail. Its liberator examined the pond. A few carp floated belly up. On a small island, long-legged cranes paced. One darted its long beak and seized a writhing fish. Its gorge worked rhythmically. The fish vanished.

He wondered why the blessing-merchants did not scare the greedy birds away. Perhaps they were necessary. Without them, the pond would soon grow full. Perversely, Shih recollected how the Mongols plucked up whole nations in their beaks and devoured them whole.

Once the rite was over, he walked swiftly towards the North Medical Relief Bureau. The narrow alleys of Water Basin Ward were muddy from last night’s downpour. Dogs and children played in puddles. Low black clouds rolled like his thoughts.

He longed to unburden himself, to be empty like the Enlightened Ones. All his life Dr Shih had struggled to forget so many things.

At last he reached a junction. One way led to the Relief Bureau, the other to the Water Gate of Morning Radiance.

Unpleasantness awaited him at the Bureau. Expensive herbs had gone missing and the matter must be investigated. He hesitated, then followed the line of the ramparts until he entered a narrow, brick-lined tunnel reeking of urine and green slime. The tunnel took him outside the city walls, where the wide river spread into the distance.

He followed a path along the riverbank, beneath the im -

pregnable towers and ramparts of Nancheng, soon reaching an isolated wooden jetty. There he sat, leaning against a mooring post. Closing his eyes, he allowed memories to surface, like the round, hungry mouth of the carp he had freed. His daring surprised him, for with those memories invariably came anguish. . .

The boy had been tall for his age. It was a family trait. People in Wei Valley called them the Stilt-Yuns, though not to their faces. The nickname implied barbarian forebears and other unflattering things. When the peasants came to Three-Step-House, paying half their crop in rent, Lord Yun towered a head above his tenants. Shih always remembered that. As Eldest Son, one day he would be Lord. The servants told him this many times, as did Mother. Father rarely noticed Shih among his many concerns.

Father was the sky and Mother the moon floating across him. Little Brother, who resembled Shih exactly, was a star hanging beside his own, glimpsed through the bamboo curtains of the room they shared. Little Guang cast a light of mischief and laughter. Though Shih was the eldest, he often deferred to him.

They were five years old and Shih might have been completely happy, except when he was not good enough. Father applauded Guang’s bold antics and Shih tried to copy them, discovering that to imitate is to be ignored. Worse, to earn unfavourable comparisons.

One winter night, as they dined on twenty dishes, Shih said to Father that families in the village were very hungry. He had seen them boiling bark and old hooves for soup. That was the year when the harvest failed because of too much rain, then too little. Father’s only reply was an unblinking, owl-like stare.

Later, Mother whispered it was better not to mention these things because Father refused to lower the rents. Shih did not know what rent might be. He suspected it made people unhappy.

A serious little boy, he stared at the plum trees above Three-Step-House, noticing how they changed according to the season. Guang climbed to the topmost branches, clambering and making noises like a monkey. If Father chanced upon them, he watched the pair coldly. Shih understood, without ever a word being said, that he should be the one grappling the highest branches. When he tried to describe how the trees grew from bareness to blossom to fruit, Father seemed angry.

‘That is why we hire gardeners,’ he said, sternly. ‘Our duty is to eat the best of the plums and sell what is left.’

Shih felt foolish but Guang piped up: ‘I don’t want anyone but
us
to have all the plums!’

Father rewarded such splendid words with a new wooden ball. Shih received nothing. Though he never doubted the justness of Father’s admonishment, he still noticed the plums turned from sour to sweet, and wondered why. Surely it meant that people or animals would notice and eat them? Whereas if they remained sour and small, no one would pay attention and the fruit would be safe in its tree. He kept those questions to himself.

Father hired troupes of performers, who he met on his frequent trips to the provincial capital, Chunming. Acrobats and actors, fire-eaters and musicians. Mother explained that Lord Yun was easily bored and required diversion. Shih knew these people were a bad thing, because he once heard Mother pleading with Father to consider the expense.

‘I will do as I like!’ he had raged. ‘What I want, I shall have!’

After that Lord Yun would not speak to anyone for a week.

Shih pondered Father’s words in the darkness of his room at night. Of course, Father was right. But he had never forgotten the year when the harvest failed and wondered whether Father should hire hungry peasants instead of acrobats. He mentioned this to Mother and she sighed: ‘One might talk to the river, but it does not listen.’

Guang was more delighted than anyone by the actors. He particularly loved fire-eaters and begged Father to let him learn how to breathe out flames. He was rewarded for this brave suggestion by being taken in the carriage when Father toured the district, gathering rent with his bailiff. Shih stayed at home, wondering what he had done wrong. When Guang returned he did not seem happy. ‘A lot of the peasants were insolent and started crying,’ he whispered. ‘One of them called Father a thief, and Father ordered his whole family to be beaten before our eyes and to leave our land forever.’

A thief! Shih considered this silently for a while.

‘Father,’ he said, quite suddenly, as they ate one of their miserable dinners together, where not even Mother dared speak. ‘Why do the peasants call you a thief?’

The table fell silent. He realised, too late, that it was a wicked question. Yet he meant no harm. He simply wanted to understand. Father glared at him.

‘Go to your room!’ he bellowed, sweeping a bowl of rice to the floor.

A hungry night followed. Shih heard Father praising Guang extravagantly in the courtyard as they fired arrows at a target.

Then Aunt Qin arrived, carried up the valley in a jolting cart laden with her boxes. Mother told the boys that with the death of her husband, Aunt Qin had no home except Three-Step-House. Mother’s face was bright for a change, her eyes no longer downcast. So Shih was glad to welcome Aunt Qin.

She was younger than Mother, though not so beautiful, and always carried a purple fan which she fluttered gracefully whenever hot winds arose. At first Father seemed pleased by her presence.

Aunt Qin was no delicate lady like Mother. She laughed heartily at simple things and did not yawn when Shih explained the mysteries all around them. He was eight years old, of an age to dote. Yet he was suspicious at first, wondering if secretly she was mocking him.

One day they walked hand in hand by the river and he found the courage to explain all he had noticed: the plum trees and other plants and animals in the valley. He pointed out where monkeys gathered and birds laid their eggs. She replied that a little nature makes all things kind. They looked at nests together, collecting speckled, turquoise eggs.

For once he did not care that Guang was back in Three-Step-House with Father. Besides, when he came home from these expeditions, he often found Guang impatiently awaiting his return. They would play without quarrelling and Guang seemed envious of his walks by the river. A happy time. Aunt Qin helped him learn his characters, for the tutor Father appointed spent more time drinking and amusing his employer than guiding Shih’s brush.

In six months he mastered so many characters that he began to read the many books and scrolls left by Great-grandfather Yun Cai. Mother clapped her hand to her mouth and wept silently when he read out a poem written by their great ancestor. But Father scowled, loudly ordering a servant to fetch wine. Later, Mother told him Father had never been patient when it came to reading or writing, but that it did not matter because he was Lord of Wei.

Once he found Aunt Qin crying. She said her husband’s absence weighed heavily on her spirits. As he listened helplessly, Shih made a silent promise. Whenever he saw a lady weeping he would make her happy. So he took Aunt Qin’s hands in his own and said: ‘I shall marry you when I am older, then you won’t miss him so much. For you shall have me.’

Aunt Qin looked at him in surprise. He met her gaze without looking away. For once he did not feel foolish.

‘I see you will keep me quite safe, Honourable Yun Shih,’ she said, bowing. ‘And I need someone to protect me. . . But I must be calm. Remember, Shih, whatever happens, one must be calm.’

She did not explain why she needed a protector. Her eyes filled with tears and she hurried to her room. Yet Shih felt proud. It was something to be needed by a beautiful lady like Aunt Qin.

‘I am Aunty’s protector,’ he told Guang. ‘If anyone treats her in a low way, I shall punish him when I become Lord of Wei.’

Words spoken in childhood. Remembering that promise made Dr Shih feel vengeful and afraid. He opened his eyes. The rough bark of the post chafed against his back. The river flowed, dimpled by light. He felt a great reluctance to remember more.

What was the use? It did little good to grieve twenty years too late. He should hurry to the Relief Bureau, where he might do some good before night fell. But once awoken, Aunt Qin’s words could not be forgotten, like an unburied ghost hungry for satisfaction.
I see you will keep me quite safe
.

*

Rain fell for days. He remembered that. Everyone in the household feared Father’s restlessness when he could not visit the neighbours or gallop to places of entertainment. With the monsoon came heat. Even in the mountains, the air was motionless, sweating like fever. A time of prickly boredom.

Lord Yun paced the hall in the Middle House, drinking wine and ordering the boys’ tutor to play endless games of chess, washed down by wine. Needless to say the tutor made sure he lost every game. Then Father summoned the bailiff and berated him for a whole hour, his loud voice echoing round the hall.

Mother declared herself indisposed and kept to her chamber.

Then Shih watched more trays of wine and food brought to the hall.

He crouched in the doorway of the topmost house, which stood on the hillside above Middle House, listening to the plash of rain as it ran from the tiled eaves. Why could Father not be like the servants and Mother, who ignored the discomfort of the monsoon? Surely he should be glad. Rain made crops grow on hillside terraces. Plants must drink just like people. Besides, he found it amusing to watch ducks on the river, followed by lines of paddling ducklings, quite oblivious to the downpour.

Shih noticed a servant hurrying up to the family quarters from the Middle House. A few minutes later Aunt Qin descended the plank-lined steps, protected by a bamboo and silk umbrella. She disappeared into the Middle House.

Shih stirred uneasily. He wished Mother was not sleeping in her room. He didn’t like Aunt Qin being alone with Father. It seemed a bad thing, though he did not know why.

Recollecting his promise to Aunt Qin, he trotted down the slippery steps. Gusts of rain blew on his shaven head. He entered Middle House by a side door, softly lifting the latch.

The hall was strangely still. Shih sensed all the servants had been sent away. The only sounds were water noises, dripping and splashing from the roof. Shih crept down the corridor and peered through a half-open door.

Because the blinds were unaccountably down, the hall was gloomy. No lanterns had been lit. Aunt Qin was on her knees paying homage to Father, who paced up and down. Several empty flasks stood on the table. One lay in pieces on the floor.

‘You have come to my house!’ he roared. ‘You make no effort to please me! Who is your master here?’

Aunt Qin was trembling. Shih longed to dart forward, to take her arm and lead her away. Instead he hid, paralysed.

‘Everyone must please me,’ continued Father. ‘Can you not think of a way?’