Dragon Dance (8 page)

“We were asleep,” Simon said. “You can't take account of what people dream.”

Ignoring that, Bei Pen said: “It explained much that might have seemed strange. Two Lomani, coming not from the west but the east, two who would not enter the deep sleep, two from whose presence the spirits of wind and fire turned away . . .”

“So you've had reports on us?” Simon said. “Was it by your order we were brought here—not the Lady Lu T'Sa's?”

“She wished your absence, we your presence: the two things went together.” His eyes were searching. “Is it not true that in your own world you are familiar with the wonders I have spoken of?”

There was no point in going on denying it. Simon said, fumbling for words in Chinese to
explain the difference between science and whatever kind of mysticism they went in for here: “It's different. Those wonders were—well, based on reason.”

Bei Pen nodded. “And reason is a function of second mind. We talk now of first mind. Come, I will show you something.”

They followed a winding path to one of the greenhouses. It was mostly stone, but the roof and south-facing wall were glazed. They went inside to warmth and a sweet pungent smell. Ripe peaches glowed against dark green leaves.

“A good crop, would you not say?” Bei Pen asked.

Simon said stubbornly: “And you say it's good because of far speaking to the plants? We get good crops in greenhouses in our land without that.”

But not, he privately admitted, at anything like this altitude. He tried to reason that it was possible to breed special strains which would tolerate adverse conditions, but knew he was not convincing himself.

Without answering, Bei Pen led the way along a walk that ran through the greenhouse. As they followed him, Simon noticed something very strange: the fruits were getting less ripe and smaller. At the
end there were no fruits, only trees in flower. It was impossible but also, like the elephant, undeniable.

•  •  •

In the middle of the day, on a terrace overlooking the fields and gardens, more than fifty men and women sat down to a simple meal of bread and crumbling white cheese and salads, washed down by a thin sharp ale. Some had come in from working in the fields. Simon realized he had been wrong in thinking the toiling figures he had seen were peasant servants. All worked for the community, and all were priests of Bei-Kun.

A large man called Bei W'ih sat opposite them. His beard was unusually full for a Chinese, black but heavily flecked with white, and he had an open jovial manner. He questioned them on the customs of the Lomani: was it true they fattened mice in pots and ate them? He also referred to stories which had reached the Middle Kingdom of a rebellion against the Lomani emperor, in which the rebels had been aided by their dead god, who gave them an all-powerful weapon and winged horses to carry them into battle. Shaking his head, he said he could believe in the mice in pots, but not so easily in the dead god and his gifts.

Simon explained that the horses did not have wings, only stirrups permitting men to fight from the saddle, and that the weapon was merely a bow, longer and deadlier than other bows.

Bei W'ih said: “And with those things, the rebels overthrew an empire which had ruled for two thousand years?” He sounded sceptical. “It is of no importance, anyway. The Western armies are a long way from the borders of the Celestial Kingdom. And arrows are feeble compared with fire darts. As for their horses, even if they were winged they would be no match for our dragons.”

“Dragons?” Simon looked at him. “I mean—what are they?”

“Dragons are dragons! Have you not seen them in paintings? Winged serpents, with scaly wings and forked tails, that breathe fire.”

His expression was amused, grinning almost. He clapped a hand on Simon's arm.

“Perhaps dragons do not breed in the land of the Lomani. But maybe you will have a chance to see ours. There is talk of the barbarians beyond the Wall being troublesome, and they may need chastising. Perhaps you will see our dragons fly.”

•  •  •

A routine developed during the days that followed. Without asking, or being asked, they found themselves working in the fields and helping generally around the bonzery. It was not arduous work, and the company was pleasant. They sang a lot, and cheerfulness was the rule.

They were not invited to take part in religious ceremonies. In the early morning and again at sunset, the priests went to the pagoda and stayed for about half an hour. Individuals went there separately at other times. Simon was a bit surprised, though not unhappy about it, that they were excluded. He mentioned it to Brad: “I thought we were supposed to have been sent here for religious instruction? At least, that's what Bei Tsu told Cho-tsing.”

Brad shrugged. “That was the cover story. We know now it was Bei Pen wanted us here.”

“But what for? To help in the fields? It doesn't make sense.”

“I suppose it will eventually.”

“The guards seem to have gone back—and Bei Tsu. As far as I can see, there's nothing to stop us just walking out.”

“I don't particularly want to,” Brad said.

“What is it you don't want to walk out on—the bonzery, or Li Mei?”

Brad did not answer, but neither did he show any sign of rising to the remark. Simon had a feeling he had changed since they had come here. He would have expected him to be more curious about things, more inquiring. In fact, when he himself had tried to talk about the peaches Bei Pen had shown them—something which in the past would have provoked a flood of speculative argument—Brad's response had been brief and uninterested. Due to mooning after Li Mei, Simon guessed: he sat by her at meals and gravitated towards her generally. But that didn't really seem to be enough to account for the change.

Bei Pen was clearly the chief priest, or at least the acknowledged leader of the community. This was indicated by the deference and respect which were shown to him, though it was not made formal in any way. It was an attitude which Simon found himself sharing; but more than that, he became aware of a private feeling of closeness to the man. There were times when he caught himself thinking of Bei Pen almost as though he were his father.

It was a confusing and slightly bothersome feeling. He had not, in fact, ever felt particularly close to his own father, a man who treated taciturnity as one of the major virtues. It puzzled him, too, because Bei Pen had shown no special interest in him; he was amiable, but in a somewhat remote fashion, as he was to everyone.

He couldn't help wondering if it was tied up with that first encounter, with the voice in his mind as he floated in the borderland between sleep and waking. Or the illusion of the voice; he could no longer remember it vividly. He was in part glad not to recall the intrusion into his mental privacy, but the gladness was tinged with regret. Even though the impact had faded, he knew it had been an experience like nothing he had known before.

The other person in the bonzery who interested him—naturally, because she was a pretty girl—was Li Mei. On a rare occasion when Brad was not in evidence, he tried talking to her but was met with smiling indifference. One afternoon, rather to his surprise, he found himself discussing the subject with Bei Pen.

He had met him returning from the pagoda.
Bei Pen asked where B'lad was, and Simon said he had gone off with Li Mei.

“It seems she prefers your friend. Does that trouble you?”

“I'm not sure.” He paused. “No, I don't think it does.”

That surprised him, too, when he thought about it. There had been rivalries between himself and Brad over girls in the past, and he really ought to feel more strongly about this one's indifference. But he didn't; in a way, there was a sense of relief. He shook his head.

“I don't know why.”

“The affinities between male and female come from first mind. They have nothing to do with reason, much with illusion.”

“First mind, second mind . . . I still don't understand.”

Patiently Bei Pen explained. First mind was the mind of God, the creator of the universe; and also the root of all living things which God had created. Second mind, the seat of awareness, of reasoning, was in the brain, and died when the brain died. First mind, like God, was immortal.

“It sounds the same as in our religion, except that instead of first mind and second mind we talk about body and soul. Well, soul and body.”

“I know of your Christian beliefs,” Bei Pen said. “There are similarities. But Christians hold that only men and women have souls. That is arrogant; and untrue.”

Disinclined for religious argument, Simon found distraction in the clouds billowing in over the plateau. It was the first time the blue sky had been invaded since their arrival.

He said: “It looks as though it might rain.”

Bei Pen nodded. “The crops require it.”

•  •  •

Brad came indoors when the rain started, looking cheerful.

Simon asked: “Where's Li Mei?”

“She went to the pagoda.”

“What
does
go on there? Do you know?”

“No.”

It was a negative which declared not so much ignorance as total lack of interest. Simon said: “I wonder what's inside—some sort of temple?”

Brad shrugged, indifferently.

Simon felt exasperation building up. He said: “What's
wrong
with you, Brad?”

“With me? Nothing's wrong.”

“You were always the one who asked the questions. I can't think why you've stopped.”

“You can ask too many questions,” Brad said. “Maybe I'm learning.”

•  •  •

It rained steadily for the rest of the day and throughout the night; but next morning the sky was once again clear and blue. Brad disappeared after breakfast, presumably in search of Li Mei. Simon could have joined one of the work parties, but didn't. This was not from idleness. He had a feeling of restlessness and unease. Though there was nothing to be uneasy about: the sun was warm, the mountain air invigorating—all round there was brightness and peace.

He was standing by one of the pools, watching fish move lazily in the clear water, when he sensed a nearby presence. Looking back, he saw Bei Pen.

He was aware of mixed feelings—a reinforcement simultaneously of the uneasiness and the sense of well-being. Chiefly the latter. But at the same time
there was an urge towards contrariness, defiance.

When Bei Pen greeted him, he said, roughly, almost rudely: “Those magic tricks Bei Tsu was trying to do at the palace—can you do them?”

He thought Bei Pen might object to his tone, or the use of the word
tricks.
But he merely smiled. “When it is necessary. And appropriate.”

“Do some now.” He felt keyed up. “Please.”

The last word came out more as challenge than request. Bei Pen did not reply. Simon felt resentful, but at the same time a little ashamed. He started to turn away, but out of the corner of his eye saw something move on the surface of the pool: an eddying mist which curdled into smoke and slowly rose. Shapes formed—indeterminate at first, but resolving into things with wings and small round bodies and little quivering heads. They were dull green in colour.

It was a moment of wonder, but he refused to accept it. He stared at the shapes, concentrating the refusal, focusing scepticism like a laser beam. And it worked. He saw them shimmer, start dissolving at their edges. One or two disappeared; the rest were mottled with transparency.

Then, as on the first night in the bonzery, the voice was inside his head, benevolent and sure: “Peace, and the mingling of minds . . .”

It was possible to resist it. He knew that, but even as he framed that possibility, something within him rejected it. He heard his own mind whispering back: “Peace . . . and the mingling of minds.”

The winged creatures were whole again; and not dull green but a dozen different colours, throwing off iridescences in their kaleidoscopic flight.

He looked from them to Bei Pen, involuntarily smiling. Bei Pen smiled back. The creatures buzzed about his head, their wings beating to a cadence which sang in his ears. They had a smell of wildflowers, and he felt them brush against his cheek and forehead. So they
were
real—perceptible through sight, hearing, smell, touch, every sense except taste. And, as he thought that, one hovered before his mouth, probing, and there was honey on his lips.

N
EXT DAY, SIMON TALKED BRAD
into taking a walk outside the bonzery. Li Mei was missing and had been all morning, but Brad was still less than keen. In Brad's present mood, Simon felt pressure of any kind might be counterproductive. He limited himself simply to asking Brad to come with him, as a favour almost. Brad agreed without enthusiasm.

They went down the hill to where the white goats grazed, and on the way Simon told him about the episode beside the pool. He said: “I had this feeling—that I could stop it all happening if I wanted to. And
I did want to, in a way. But there was this other feeling of being part of it, of helping to make the flying things. It felt good.”

Brad was silent.

Simon said: “What bothers me is whether Bei Pen has some sort of power over me, and if so, how much.”

“Does it matter? He hasn't tried to get you to do anything you don't want to, has he?”

“It matters,” Simon said. “Something happened that first night. I don't know what, but I know it matters. You must see that.”

He was trying to provoke Brad into an argument. It was extraordinary that any trying should be required: Brad was normally ready and willing to argue about anything under the sun. But not now. He said nothing; merely stared down the slope towards the mist which clung to the hillside as it had done the afternoon they had come through it and seen the bonzery.