Taming Poison Dragons (3 page)

At that name, my son hesitates. His round face crinkles into an anxious frown. I know he wishes to mention Youngest Son. Inseparable as boys, he could never be angry with Little Brother, even after his disgrace. Now the troubled times offer a chance to relent. I could bend like the willows outside, but I have made my wishes plain.

‘These are bad days,’ I say.

He looks at me resentfully.

‘What should we do?’ he asks. ‘Sit and wait like fattening pigs? More and more deserters have joined the bandits higher up the valley.’

‘What would you have us do?’

‘I do not know, Father,’ he says. ‘The whole family is afraid. My wife, the maids. . . They say soldiers looted Fouchow Village and dishonoured the headman’s daughters. That is only thirty
li
away.’

Wudi won’t like that last piece of news. Everyone with a position hopes it will protect them.

‘A mountain lies between us and Fouchow,’ I reply.

He nods and leaves. I am left helpless. It is no pleasant thing to disappoint your son. What does he expect of me?

Am I some prince with an army to defend Wei Valley? It is written that the First Emperor buried a hundred thousand clay warriors in his tomb to fight again in the Immortal Land. I possess a few dozen earthenware storage jars to preserve us.

*

‘Lord Yun Cai will protect us always!’ declares the cook, no doubt intending to flatter. Perhaps he means to mock. By the look of him, half the food intended for my family reaches his belly.

His comment reveals the servants’ fear. Rumours of Fouchow Village obsess them. Two hundred years ago, Wei itself was burnt by rebels and people round here forget nothing. One may still see the blackened foundation stones supporting many houses in the village.

‘Continue as usual,’ I say. ‘All will be well.’

‘What of Fouchow, Lord!’ a few cry.

‘A swarm of mosquitoes can sound like thunder,’ I reply.

This old proverb seems to reassure them. Nervous smiles cross many faces. Now they have brave words to trade among themselves, courtesy of authority. I turn to find my son watching, his mother’s look of approval on his face. But then, she is another of whom I do not think.

I withdraw to my room and find my youngest grandson, Little Sparrow, weeping in the corridor. For a moment I recall another child, her vanished tears, jade drops of sadness. At first Little Sparrow will not explain his upset, then the words rush out: ‘Middle Brother won’t give me my wooden ball back! He says it’s his because I lost it!’

Here is the philosophy of General An-Shu. I lay my hand on his head.

‘You’ll get your ball back,’ I say. ‘Now go and play.’

He dries his eyes and scampers away, passing from grief to elation in a moment. Not so my own feelings as I sit in my room, listening to the wind outside.

Headman Wudi arrives and we share a flask. This is a great condescension on my part.

‘Lord Yun Cai,’ he says, laying his hands across his Buddha’s pot-belly. ‘I beg to report knowledge you already possess.’

Meaning he knows something I don’t.

‘You are anxious concerning a high official, called P’ei Ti?’ he asks, cautiously.

‘Go on.’

‘My wife’s uncle is a fishmonger in Chunming,’ he says.

‘He has fled the town because of General An-Shu’s rebellion. It seems the rebels expect their trout for free. He heard a rumour that a great official, called P’ei Ti, has been captured.’

I cry out, cannot stifle it. He waits silently.

‘Is this true?’ I ask, at last.

‘It’s what I heard.’

I lower my head. I know my faithful, honest P’ei Ti too well to doubt his loyalty to the Son of Heaven, and the reward he must reap for it.

Wudi hesitates.

‘Are you angry with me, Lord?’

‘No, no. . . You see, P’ei Ti meant to visit me. I am his host. And he is my dearest friend.’

He is uncomfortable at such frankness. From me, at least.

When he has gone I weep unashamedly. Only a brute would not understand my tears. It is hard for old men to cry, though they have more reason than the young.

All day I stare blankly at the wall. Eldest Son and Daughter- in-law flutter round me like helpless moths, attracted not to a lamp, but to my darkness. They have heard Wudi’s news. Their anxiety is for themselves more than P’ei Ti, who is just a name to them. What if he tells General An-Shu of his destination in the hills? What if the General suspects our family of loyalty to the Emperor?

What if he decides to make an example of us?

These fears trouble me, too. Mostly I try to convince myself P’ei Ti is still alive, a prisoner or honoured hostage.

That he has escaped or persuaded General An-Shu to send him back to the capital with a message for His Majesty.

Anything except the executioner’s silken cord. His body flung into a ditch beneath the ramparts of dismal Chunming.

Fresh rumours have reached the village. The General is conscripting all men under forty for his depleted army.

Any day now I expect soldiers and officials to arrive in Wei, seizing conscripts and animals, anything of value which might aid his cause. But the road stays empty. Our valley is remote, after all, and poor. Many of the peasants have barely enough, even during fat years. Such objections mean nothing to great men like the General or his advisers. To them we are merely ink on a map, and our feelings are stones to be trodden into the mud. We are simplified.

Either useful or not useful. Our best hope is that the General decides to march south again soon, that way we might be left in peace.

Always the shadowy figure of Youngest Son haunts me, strutting among General An-Shu’s regiments, perhaps thinking of us. I dare not assume his thoughts are fond.

In the hour before dusk I sit in the garden beside the highest building of Three-Step-House. My grandsons chase round ornamental rocks in the fading light, casting words and a wooden ball between them. Little Sparrow flashes me a grateful look. For a moment the vastness of the mountains reassure me, root my strength. If only I possessed the courage to act! Send a servant to Chunming, gather definite news of P’ei Ti’s fate. Instead I sit with lowered head and watch the sun inch behind the peaks.

That night I dream of days when I was strong and never doubted my ability to endure, as young pines mock the fiercest winds of winter. Then the dream shifts. I see my wife’s plump, reproachful face, and that of our daughter, Little Peony, and I wake to sorrow. Yet thoughts of hungry ghosts have given me an idea.

Sometimes what is obvious eludes us, whether through ignorance or neglect of truth. At last I see a way. A way which should have occurred to me earlier. It might even help P’ei Ti, if he still lives and is susceptible to good fortune.

I begin by summoning a geomancer to confirm that the day is propitious. He listens to my plan carefully, nodding approval when I voice my fears concerning unlucky orientations.

‘Lord Yun Cai must proceed from west to east, not the other way around,’ he concludes. ‘Otherwise the spirits lack a means of escape and their fear may turn into anger.’

Wise notions I ponder for some time. I am determined to be more like Father, paying attention to every detail.

I send letters sealed five times with yellow wax to monasteries situated in a neighbouring valley; one Daoist, the other dedicated to the service of the Buddha. Letters written beneath a cloud of incense, in case demons peer over my shoulder. A small risk, given that I have warned the gate gods against intruders by whispering in their ears.

I tell Eldest Son nothing of my plans. Surprise is worth an army of sorcerers in such a battle.

On the appointed day three travellers converge on Three-Step-House, each well-known to me.

Xia-Dong is a monk of thirty years standing, his organs unsullied by meat or fish of any kind, save for a fly he once swallowed accidentally. The other, Devout Lakshi, is blessed with innumerable secrets of the Dao.

Nevertheless, Xia-Dong’s companion astonishes me.

None other than Thousand-
li
-drunk!

The learned monk informs me that, contrary to his usual custom, Thousand-
li
-drunk has spent the weeks since his visit to Wei in the monastery, from where he wanders as far as Chunming. This is a puzzle, yet in all other respects he stays true to his nature: still drunk, still dining on insects, and still unwilling to proceed further into my house than the gate. Xia-Dong assures me that his presence can only be beneficial.

‘Madmen are often the incarnations of Immortals,’ he advises.

Thousand-
li
-drunk watches my movements through bloodshot, cunning eyes, occasionally calling out strange riddles.

At dawn the next day I summon Eldest Son, Headman Wudi, and the rest of the household. For a moment I feel like Father, stern in his chair, quelling their murmurs with a fierce stare.

‘These are bad times,’ I announce. ‘There is war in Chunming, and evil deeds blow across the valley like black seeds. I have decided that we must avert disaster.’

Eldest Son exchanges a glance with Daughter-in-law.

For once I fear no reproach. I feel utter certitude.

Ceremoniously, like a general before the fight, I unroll a scroll prepared with the assistance of Xia-Dong and Lakshi. It sets out the position of my forces.

I read in a bold voice, so that any unseen listeners are aware of my resolve. For a moment there is a stunned silence in the room. They are unused to decisiveness on my part. Then Headman Wudi calls out: ‘Long live our wise father, Lord Yun Cai!’, and prostrates himself. All follow his lead. Some of the women sob with relief.

‘Everything is prepared,’ I say. ‘Wudi, gather the village on pain of my displeasure, young and old, man and woman. The sick or menstruating must stay behind locked doors. See it is done within the hour!’

He bows his way out and rushes down the hill.

We use the hour wisely, proceeding to the ancestral shrine Father built in a grove above Three-Step-House.

There I release white doves from a bamboo cage. The clattering of their wings echoes round the pine trees. Eldest Son can barely disguise his pride. My heart is glad.

When we reach the gatehouse, hundreds of the peasants await us. They roar with one voice as I arrive. In obedience to my instructions, many bear iron pots and gongs, clay drums and musical instruments. Others carry branches of willow, peach or artemisia, which they wave like swords. Eldest Son and my grandsons are armed with squares of paper bearing potent characters and spells.

We proceed on the route I have chosen. The uproar is continual. First we drive the demons and ghosts to the west of the valley, blocking their return with spells speared on twigs. The wind rises as if in approval, blowing invisible spirits before us like whirling leaves. And so through the cardinal points of north and south. At each I build a wall of sacrifice, burning incense on a brazier and pouring out sacred earth from the ancestral shrine. In the south, where Two-Face-Crag rises, Xia-Dong ladles out a jar of water while Devout Lakshi chants, transfixing sheep lungs on a stake.

I lead the procession to the village well. Here the Goddess of Wei Valley may often be glimpsed, smiling up at the villagers, especially on moon-lit nights.

By now wine flows through the crowd and jubilation is general. We march east, our final cardinal point. A frenzy of noise makes the valley echo. Peasants beat the air with branches, flattening bushes beside the road where stubborn demons lurk.

At last we reach the bend where the valley narrows between pine-clad hillsides. Monkeys scream and swing through the trees, alarmed by our approach. Meanwhile the remainder of our spells are fixed with iron nails onto the trees, effectively closing the gates on the hostile spirits who flee before us. Xia-Dong sets fire to branches of artemisia, thus satisfying the fifth element. It is done. Our valley purified. Finally, we spit prodigiously, for demons hate to be spat at.

In the strange way of crowds, we fall silent. People look around nervously. Mothers reach out for their children. A drumming of hooves approaches from the east. Cries of men in battle. I have heard that noise before, such wild shouts, long ago when I was young. Dread fills me.

‘Wudi!’ I bellow. ‘Order the people into the trees!

Quickly, to the trees!’

He hesitates for breath only.

‘Follow Lord Yun Cai! To the trees! Leave the road! To the trees!’

Panic flutters through the crowd. We become a mass of elbows, heels, jostling bodies. The drumming of hooves grows louder. Before half the people have left the road, horsemen appear round the bend in the valley, whipping their mounts.

A dozen armoured cavalry wearing sky-blue cloaks, the emperor’s colour, thunder through us. Dust and neighing fills the air, cries of children. Behind them come a larger group of horsemen on shaggy ponies. They bend bows and release a hail of arrows.

Screams amongst the scrambling villagers. One man falls, an arrow piercing his throat. Our crowd throws the pursuing archers into disorder. Horses rear and collide in confusion, rallying round a flag bearing General An-Shu’s symbol. Though I protest that we should help the wounded, Eldest Son drags me away from the road, up the hillside, our silk robes tearing on thorns and brambles.

I catch a glimpse of the mounted archers through the trees, milling in the road below. I know their kind from my youth. Barbarians, mercenaries from the steppes. They wheel and gallop back the way they came.

I have failed. My attempt to purify the village an utter misfortune.

Three children trampled by the mounted bowmen loyal to General An-Shu, and two peasants killed by their arrows. One of them was Wudi’s middle son. A boy who grew to manhood alongside my own. His loss pierces my heart.

Worse must surely follow. The mounted bowmen abandoned their pursuit of the Imperial cavalry, perhaps believing the village ahead was hostile, and turned back to Chunming. If they tell General An-Shu that Wei is in revolt against his rule, we can expect swift reprisals. Of the Imperial cavalry, there is no news. They galloped further up the valley and disappeared, their presence a mystery in itself.