Taming Poison Dragons (17 page)

To maim, and kill, twenty men in such a manner takes a long time. Two hours pass. At first the peasants weep or hug each other, then grow numb. I notice one winking at his friend as a particularly large set of genitalia are severed. There are dishes to suit every taste. I grip Eldest Son’s hand, and command him to close his eyes as I do.

He is shaking uncontrollably. If his little brother were not the instigator of this, perhaps he might view it with more composure. After all, we have seen executions before.

At last it is over. Our village square shiny with blood.

I watch through narrowed eyes as Youngest Son rises stiffly, pulling on his helmet with unsteady hands. It hangs askew on his head. He orders his drummers to strike up, and marches from the square. We are left to examine what remains. A few of the women begin to sob. Even the assembled soldiers seem restless. Many have been staring up at the clouds for the last two hours.

As soon as Youngest Son has gone, Lieutenant Lo hurries over to my bench. My official’s robes are stiff with sweat.

‘Lord Yun Cai,’ he says, gravely.

I ignore him.

‘Lord Yun Cai, it is over.’

My spirit rages against General An-Shu. That man has stolen my son from all affection. I look at him with accusing eyes.

‘Since when are the Four Punishments applied except in the case of gravest treason?’ I demand. ‘Gravest, gravest treason. Those men were conscripts. A good whipping would have sufficed.’

‘We must have no disorder,’ he whispers. ‘Any display of resentment would be rebellion.’

‘At the very most, a simple beheading or strangling for the ringleaders, as an example to the rest,’ I continue, ignoring him. ‘
That
would accord with natural practice.’

‘Lord Yun Cai, I beg you! For the sake of your people.’

I come to my senses.

‘What must we do?’ I ask, wearily.

‘Speak to the villagers. Order them to disperse quietly.’

I rise to my feet.

‘Go home,’ I say. ‘Wudi! Where is Wudi?’

He appears at my elbow. I have never seen him so pale.

Or relieved. It could easily have been us facing red-hot shears.

‘Tell them to go home,’ I say.

We separate the crowd into groups and dismiss them from the square. One has already left. Thousand-
li
-drunk vanished as mysteriously as he arrived. I frown and scowl continually. Let nobody imagine that I condone my son.

Lieutenant Lo insists on accompanying me up the hill.

We exchange no words and he bows silently as I enter the gatehouse.

Watchmen have been placed on high ridges and outcrops all along the valley. Guards patrol the streets; no one leaves their home. A flight of geese form a ragged bow across the sky, and this gives me hope, reminding me of the day I accompanied Father to Mulberry Ridge. When the steward brings my wine, he says the soldiers have marched back up the valley, no doubt seeking their elusive enemy. I grunt in reply.

As soon as the door closes I ladle out a large cup. It is a mirror where past and present meet. A slight swirl of oil in the clear liquid, reflecting drops of light. I raise it to my lips and gulp, my throat lumpy with emotion. That will pass. How sweet it tastes! Ever since our troubles began I have avoided wine, restrained by duty. Little good it has brought.

The second cup tastes even better, thawing numbed sinews of self. Ah, how I loved to drink when I was young! Close your eyes, old man. See! The West Lake unfurls once again. You are nineteen, tall and eager, your heart full of expectation. Ladies glance at you coyly when you stroll down the Imperial Way. Bright, bright the sun. . . a scent of chrysanthemums in the air. . . and a hundred sorrows are yet to occur. . .

*

At Lord Xiao’s garden party, I had hinted to my great patron that I cared whether the peasants starved. Also that I hoped for a posting which might allow me to aid their famine. My first position was entirely a matter of his whim. Perhaps he took the decision between sips of tea, or over a game of draughts. Either way, I was awarded a posting entirely suited to my talents, but completely at odds with my ideals. For I earnestly hoped to achieve great things for my fellow men.

P’ei Ti fared better in this game of offices. His dearest wish was for influence, the proximity of power, and he was not disappointed with the position of Secretary to the Lesser Censor of The Right Hand. While he might not determine policy, in such a post he could learn how one did. More importantly, he might gain important friends.

Whereas I, fired by a thousand vague visions of the public good, was allotted an obscure berth.

How often those who intend the most are passed over in favour of those who intend least, and so attract the approval of their superiors! For change requires imagination and integrity, dangerous qualities in an official.

I found myself set aside from the great currents rocking the ship of His Imperial Highness’ state, but in a position by no means ignoble. Indeed, I counted myself fortunate to be hailed as Under Librarian at the Hall of Imperial Records, a post worthy of several thousand
cash
a month.

At the age of nineteen, I earned more than clerks who had toiled for forty years from dawn until dusk. It was no fortune, but enough to end my dependency on Uncle Ming.

Lord Xiao summoned me to his office in the Finance Ministry at the commencement of my post. Naturally, I abased myself, proffering half a dozen poems of gratitude I doubt he ever read. Certainly they were never mentioned again and I took no copies.

‘So,’ he said, peering down at my scalp. ‘Is the son of the famous saviour of General Yueh Fei, pleased with his first appointment?’

I immediately understood Lord Xiao’s mood was not balanced. Perhaps one of his many rivals had pleased His Majesty more than himself at the morning’s Golden Audience.

‘I am overwhelmed by my Lord’s faith in me,’ I said.

Did I intend irony? I’m sure I didn’t know myself.

‘One must start somewhere,’ he said, yawning. ‘Very good. Off you go.’

I left with all marks of submission. Whether it might be called arrogance or futile impudence on my part, his tone of voice (and he had a rather squeaky voice) rankled with me. Yet I owed Lord Xiao a thousand obligations. So you might simply call me ungrateful.

On the day I left Uncle Ming’s house I surprised myself by weeping. It was a morning like any other in the Wine Market. Porters strained to balance jars suspended from poles. Hawkers of every degree proclaimed their wares.

Smells of roasting meat mingled with the fumes of strong spirits.

My entire possessions filled a single handcart. Uncle Ming waited by the gate, a look of strange triumph on his fat face.

‘Uncle,’ I said, brushing away tears as rapidly as they fell. ‘You have been a father to me.’

Even he, his core so hidden from the world, appeared moved.

‘Nephew,’ he said. ‘You have brought me great satisfaction.’

‘How, Uncle?’ I asked, already knowing the answer.

His kindness, in truth, had never been directed at me.

‘When I next meet your father,’ he said. ‘Whether in this world or the next, I’ll have something to tell him.’

‘Is the wine cooler paid for, Uncle?’ I asked.

‘You’re sharp, boy! Of course it is! And that’s why I’m happy.’

Then I turned to Cousin Hong, who waited behind his father.

‘Little General, you’re on your way! Who’d have thought it! I might even miss you, now and then.’

I knew how to please him best, and wanted to please him. For Cousin Hong had been a friend when I needed one most.

‘Remember, I owe you,’ I said. ‘Write it down so you don’t forget.’

He snorted.

‘Writing is why we hire clerks. I prefer numbers.’

‘Remember,’ I said, clasping his hand.

‘Of course I will! Don’t be a fool, Little General.’

Then I came to Yi-Yi. He slobbered over my new uniform, and if he said anything intelligible, no one heeded it.

As for Honoured Aunty and Cousin Zhi, there was no sign. This time not even a paper curtain stirred. Yet I had not seen the last of them. Malice can endure as well as goodwill.

That brave morning, walking in advance of my handcart, I swam through crowds on the Imperial Way until I reached an estate adjoining the West Lake. Here, in the midst of a large park where short-horned deer fed at twilight, lay my first house, half-hidden by a semi-circular thicket of bamboo, pine and willow.

How do I remember Goose Pavilion so well? I might almost be there now, my bare toes padding across its earthen floors.

I had rented the place from a noble family fallen on hard times, their ancestry as glorious as their fortune was small. I never saw them, for they preferred to live cheaply in the country. The park was always quiet, their mansion empty except for a few old servants. In the midst of the greatest city on earth I might have been a country-dweller, and this suited me well.

The house was called Goose Pavilion because flocks of waterfowl congregated on the nearby West Lake. It consisted of three small rooms. One for sleep, one for entertainment, and one for washing and cooking. Every room plain and simple. An old woman came from the mansion to fulfil my domestic needs each day and it was only later, in quite remarkable circumstances, I acquired a servant of my own.

Plain words describe rich feelings best. Oh, the first night I spent there, the pleasure of my freedom! Each room seemed to house a host of spirits, all smiling to greet me! I had escaped the coils of Honoured Aunty and Cousin Zhi, and was at last safe. When I leant against the lintel of my front door, the West Lake lay before me, forming ripples and delightful patterns until the moon’s reflection danced.

Few appreciate good fortune until it has gone. Was I so?

Certainly I recall moments of depression, yet my life was a circle of diversions, the most notable being my friends.

How effortlessly one gathers friends when young! Later, they come more rarely, and always with reservations, for the years teach one to be suspicious. At nineteen, I was not so inhibited.

Confucius speaks of three advantageous friendships: with the upright, the sincere, and the man of much observation. I was lucky to find all three in a score of fellows my own age, many of whom later went on to gain high renown, their portraits hanging in the Hall of Assembled Worthies. At least, I assume they are. Decades have vanished since my final stay in the capital. Everyone has heard their names – Pan Ch’ao, Wang Chen, Cheng Kuo, above all, P’ei Ti – to recall but a few. I was considered in every way their equal. Perhaps they never think of me now.

We were blossom, bright and in our prime, promising to bear fruit one day. Or perhaps just butterflies, fluttering from one amusement to the next, dazzled by our superiority. Walks through public gardens where we improvised verses at the slightest provocation, praising an unusual rock or gnarled tree; trips to theatre and tea-house; letters and poems exchanged to express eternal delight over a long-forgotten conversation; our exaggerated fondness for each other, and displays of sadness when official duties took a much-loved companion from our midst. In this we were entirely conventional.

Most of all I loved those parties where scrolls of poetry were removed from their boxes, ink mixed, brushes raised in amiable challenge. Delight at passing half a verse to be completed by a friend, then receiving it back, its rhyme subtly altered, back and forth until food and wine and paper ran out, or dawn surprised us. Sometimes we carried on into the morning, breakfasting on laughter. I loved, too, gathering in a monastery or pagoda to greet the moon. Naturally, we filled our vigil with ribaldry and song. I often took my lute and played gentle airs before passing it to the next man, who sought to embellish my theme. Or we would visit the studios of painters, vying to read as many symbols as possible in a landscape.

Twice a week I wandered to the Library of Imperial Records and set a few scrolls in order, before drinking tea with the Head Librarian. Then I would spend a pleasant afternoon reading whatever took my fancy while the eunuchs went about their business. Civilised pleasures, incomprehensible to a barbarian.

Years passed in this way until I neared my twenty-fourth birthday. By now P’ei Ti was already commencing the arduous studies required for the highest test of all, the Imperial Examination, and urged me to do likewise.

Perhaps I might have turned my thoughts to the future had I not met Su Lin for a third, fateful time. Once again I had Lord Xiao to thank, though his generosity was far from intended.

It was Lord Xiao’s custom to organise a large boating party each year for those who depended on his patronage.

Several hundred officials and their principle wives, not to mention concubines, servants, musicians, jugglers, singing girls and acrobats, some of whom specialised in somer-saulting from prow to prow without wetting their toes.

Such a party required a fleet of craft. Lord Xiao would hire every available paddle boat on the West Lake, some a hundred feet long. Writing out the invitations was no small matter and, because my calligraphy was considered exceptionally fine, I was summoned by Lord Xiao’s secretary to assist. For several days I toiled, copying out invitations on the finest paper, and even silk. Some were several pages long. Naturally, I had no choice. Refusal on my part would be shortly followed by a posting to some dismal province and a lifetime’s reputation as an ingrate.

I used the opportunity to compose another letter requesting three months’ leave to visit my parents in far off Wei. As usual, I received no reply. In truth, the long separation from my parents had begun to trouble my peace of mind. Sometimes I considered resigning my post and setting off for the mountains. Only fear of Father’s reaction stopped me. Had he not spent a dozen miserable years on the frontier when he was young, dodging barbarian arrows and shivering in garrison towns? He would consider me a worthless puppy to throw away the career he had ordained.

So my mood was not one of gaiety when I boarded the paddle boat to which I had been assigned. I found myself among a sweating host of low officials and their gaudily attired wives. To my chagrin, P’ei Ti had been granted a place on a boat bearing a better sort. He waved across water churned by countless paddles and oars, evidently amused. It was the first indication that our destinies were diverging.