Taming Poison Dragons (64 page)

‘Please consider it well.’

I struggle to look beyond his words, to high office and dignity, a fine home and wealth. With power, I could encourage necessary reforms, my life might end in glory, my portrait hung forever in the Hall of Assembled Worthies.

I might even see Su Lin one last time before I die.

But, of course, I shall not go. The court and its follies will do very well without me; I have drunk enough poison for one lifetime. And what wisdom can I offer the Son of Heaven? Only this: I have learned how clouds float, not why. Yet once, when I was young, I believed one must always ask why.

A gong tolls in the village below and I recollect grandson’s wedding. Noon approaches and we must hurry back to Three-Step-House. At the gatehouse, P’ei Ti pauses to enjoy the last traces of mist in the valley. White birds circle over Wobbly Watchtower Rock.

‘Is it disloyal to my family,’ I say. ‘To wonder if I am just a father of drifting clouds? Everything I have ever held precious disperses, as this mist will.’

*

He shakes his head.

‘You are quite wrong. If you could but appreciate it, you have spent your entire life taming poison dragons. As for your clouds, they are made of happy jade. Why be so morbid?’

Why indeed?

For a few hours I am the father of happy jade clouds.

Let Xi-wang-nu, Queen Mother of the West, remember us in her palace beside the Tortoise Mountains. May her thoughts wander from the Wide-wind Garden to humble Wei. Today, according to both the astrologer and geomancer, is a day auspicious for women. So it shall be for us. Xi-wang-nu’s beauty surpasses beauty. Her skin is especially fine. On her jasper terrace stands a maid whose fan has the power to waft us with good luck. I have long ceased to yearn for the herb of immortality. Today Xi-wang-nu might grant it to us in roundabout ways.

At noon the ceremonies begin. I wear silks provided by P’ei Ti. His influence is boundless, and remorseless. For the last week riders have galloped between Chunming and Wei bearing clothes and other fortunate items.

Certainly we are blessed in our new Granddaughter-in-law. A comely girl, her teeth like pomegranate seeds, a sure sign of fecundity. She has a shrewd way about her, suggesting intelligence, and she reminds me of Fragrant Dawn.

Of course, my grandson is young to be getting married.

Both bride and groom are just twelve years old, too tender in years to contemplate a consummation. But I made a promise to Wudi and hear only good of the girl. Eldest Son has declared himself satisfied by the dowry and even Daughter-in-law approves, no doubt glad to have a female ally in Three-Step-House – perhaps she will balance out the excess of
yang
in our family.

Eldest Son hobbles about on crutches then collapses into my ebony chair, clutching his arrow-wound with a ghastly smile. Daughter-in-law defies my expectations. I thought she might chide him for showing weakness before the guests. Instead, she cries on his shoulder until he is the one who grows embarrassed. I watch from my seat at the head table and raise my wine cup in encouragement.

After the bride has straddled herself across the horse saddle, after the customary cups of rice wine, after all and sundry have stuffed themselves at my expense, I leave by the side door of Three-Step-House and climb the hill through the orchard.

In one hand I carry a lantern, in the other a basket of delicacies from the wedding feast. Perhaps I am a little drunk. Certainly it was my intention to remain sober. Of course my expression should be sombre as I enter the pine-copse containing our ancestral shrine but the toasts I have downed make me chuckle, especially when I recall how tenderly Golden Bells sang a nuptial poem I composed for tonight’s banquet, one set to an old tune,
Wind
Washed Sands
. An old, sad tune. For a moment the long hall of people fell silent. Then someone called out a coarse joke and we roared with laughter. That is best. To laugh now, because melancholy must surely come later.

I reach the dark entrance to the shrine. It preserves my family’s heart. A low-building, half-buried in the earth.

Door of night. How easily it creaks open. I sit on the step and dare not venture further. The darkness within is absolute. I can sense Father and Mother’s eyes upon me.

Youngest Son’s spirit resides here, in the tablet of green jade provided for him. No one spoke of him today, as though he had never been. If I could offer my ghost to see his wayward smile again death would seem a small thing, for he would regain his chance to live beyond me and then I might feel at peace. If I could bring him back by dissolving like dew, I would.

Water drips somewhere in the lightless shrine and I pull my jacket close. Water can drip through stone.

They say distance tests the strength of a horse, time a man’s character. Why should I fear Honoured Aunty and Cousin Zhi’s ghosts, or Lord Xiao’s angry face, or the lifeless eyes of the man I killed? And where is Uncle Ming’s ruin? Or Su Lin’s wilted love? Oh, that love never left my heart! Perhaps it is time to let the past go and enjoy the last days of autumn.

Sounds of celebration reach me from Three-Step-House. Am I missed? No one has come to find me. I shiver, tempted to return.

But there are others to mourn. Raising the lantern, I step into the shrine and watch light flicker on the tablets of the dead. There is poor Little Peony, who should be a grown woman now, a mother herself. Awkwardly, I lay my basket of food beneath Fragrant Dawn’s tablet. Given her appetites, it seems likely she will enjoy such a gift. Do I seek to placate my own failings, so they can feed on me no more? A faint breeze stirs the pines. A sigh of wind is all her reply. And it is enough.

I step out beneath a sky lit by circling stars. Tender clouds float and my lantern gutters bravely. Someone in Three-Step-House breaks into song. It does no good to chafe, except against darkness. If I am granted another spring I shall scratch my back and doze in the sun; then I’ll offer a final farewell to the Blossom God and not feel too sad. Three-Step-House will become an invisible cloud on which I’ll drift away, forever and ever, haunted by nothing at all.

All characters and places in the novel are fictional apart from the Imperial capital, Linan, now known as Hangchow. The West Lake still exists and is admired for its scenic charm just as in Yun Cai’s day.

Although there was no rebellion by a warlord called General An-Shu during the Southern Song Dynasty (1127–1279), deep tensions existed between civilian and military leaders in the Empire. Particularly when it came to winning back Chinese lands lost to nomad tribes or buying peace through ignoble payments of tribute. Within sixty years such tensions had inspired mass defections to the Mongol invaders by ambitious officers like General An-Shu eager for local autonomy.

Song Dynasty China’s brash and materialistic culture resembles our own self-indulgent society in many ways.

Yet in one respect – the high status given to poetry by all social classes – it seems very strange indeed. This was a world where literate men and women found it natural to express themselves through complex verse. And it was indeed possible to buy wine or tea with a sheaf of poems.

It is hard to imagine another time or place where poetry has possessed such currency.

I would urge readers of this novel unfamiliar with Chinese poetry to take the plunge and sample the delights of Su Tung-po, Wang Wei, Po Chu-i, Li Po and Tu Fu – to name but a few. Excellent editions are widely available.

The Columbia Book of Chinese Poetry (from Early Times
to the Thirteenth Century)
translated by Burton Watson is full of treasure.

Grateful thanks to my agent Jane Gregory and everyone at Gregory and Company, especially Stephanie Glencross and Jemma McDonagh. Thanks also to the many people kind enough to read an early draft of the novel: Steve Powell, Angie Turner, Carole Pritchard, Dr Vicky Fogg, my brothers Rich and Phil, as well as my parents, Jim and Dori Murgatroyd, for all their encouragement. Thanks to Bob Horne for inspiration over the years. Antonia Crowther’s generous assistance has also been much appreciated. Finally, thanks to Ed Handyside for his editorial advice and making this book possible.

‘Now I must tell you of a wonderful sight. North of Eight-hundred-
li
Lake, on Han River, lie the Twin Cities of Nancheng and Fouzhou, staring at one another across wide waters. A hundred years ago Prefect Fu Mu-ei was granted a vision in a dream of joining these two cities, though three whole
li
of flowing river divided them. Many doughty posts were driven into the riverbed and boulders piled round them to form resolute islands. By this means a Floating Bridge was constructed, with a roadway of planks laid across a hundred flat-bottomed boats, chained one to another. So the name ‘Twin Cities’ is as apt as
yin
and
yang
.’

FROM
DREAM POOL ESSAYS
BY SHEN KUA

Nancheng, Central China. Summer 1266.

Summer was seldom a pleasant time for Dr Shih.

Monsoon and breathless heat encouraged all manner of disease, not least of the spirit. On humid nights the temporary oblivion of sleep often eluded him until dawn. So the persistent banging at his gate did not take him quite by surprise.

He lay awake beside his wife, Cao, who always slept well. Tiny beads of sweat prickled his forehead and upper lip. Thoughts far from the city, far from agreeable, made a midnight summons oddly welcome. Besides, he was used to night callers, generally fetching him to attend a difficult birth – or death.

He rose and hurried down a long, dark corridor to the medicine shop. Dr Shih took up a lamp burning beneath a cheap woodcut print of the Yellow Emperor then unbarred the door.

The man before him wore a high official’s vermilion silk robes and was accompanied by lantern-bearing servants, as well as several soldiers leaning on tasselled halberds.

Such callers were unusual in any part of town, but especially here. Dr Shih’s shop stood in Water Basin Ward, one the city’s poorer districts. His wealthiest patients were artisans and their families. He bowed respectfully and waited for the official to speak.

‘Are you Yun Shih?’ demanded his visitor.

He sensed movement behind him and turned to see Cao entering the room, her long hair in disarray. Alarm crossed her soft, plump face as she recognised the man’s uniform. Shih motioned her out of sight.

‘I am Yun Shih, sir,’ he said, sounding confident for Cao’s sake. He could sense her apprehension and felt enough of his own.

Official eyes narrowed, looking him up and down.

‘You are a doctor?’

‘I believe so, sir.’

Still the official did not seem satisfied.

‘You are younger than I expected.’

Indeed Shih did appear younger than three decades deserved. There was something restless and youthful in the frank gaze of his gentle brown eyes. Yet his dark, straight eyebrows suggested an unusually determined nature.

The official wiped his moist brow with a trailing silk sleeve.

‘May I assume I am not in trouble?’ asked Shih.

The official shook his head.

‘His Excellency Wang Ting-bo requires you. Be ready soon.’

Dr Shih flinched slightly, then turned to where his wife hovered behind the tall maple counter of their shop.

‘Go back to bed. I shall return to Apricot Corner Court before dawn.’

He knew she would sit up all night waiting for him, sipping cup after cup of tea.

Once the apprentice was roused and dressed, Dr Shih joined the official in the street. It was cooler out here than indoors.

‘Who is sick, sir?’ he asked.

Raucous singing and clapping drifted across the canal from Ping’s Floating Oriole House. A group of neighbours, fanning themselves at a stall selling cordials, called out a polite greeting. The official silenced them with a haughty stare.

‘Your patient is Wang Ting-bo’s son,’ he said, quietly.

‘They say he is unlikely to outlive the dawn.’

Dr Shih was glad Cao had not heard that. It hardly boded well to be summoned to a sick dragon’s bedside. Or even the only son of a dragon.

Nancheng city stewed in its own amusements. Dense crowds slowed the small party hurrying through the night.

On Vermilion Bird Way a night market was reaching its climax before the City Watchmen ordered all sober citizens to bed by beating the drum eight hundred times.

Many had no intention of heeding the command. They passed stalls where the scents of fish fried with Sichuan spices pricked one’s nostrils; tea stalls surrounded by chess players; taverns raucous with fragile fellowship. Beggars and quick-handed urchins melted into the crowd at the sight of the stern official and his armed escort. Chung, Dr Shih’s portly apprentice, puffed along behind.

They reached the foot of Peacock Hill, an ancient palace complex long ago converted into a warren of government bureaus and mansions for high officials. As Dr Shih climbed the hill he surveyed the Han River below, a full three
li
wide. A sickle moon illuminated the water. On the far shore lay Fouzhou, sister city to Nancheng, the two cities joined by a huge pontoon bridge constructed upon boats. Shih could see the lanterns of river-craft moving on the dark water like floating stars.

Soldiers guarded the gatehouse of the Prefectural com-pound. On seeing the official they saluted and stepped aside.

‘Sir, what is the nature of the boy’s malady?’ asked Shih, trotting after his guide up a steep flight of marble steps.

The official shrugged.

‘That is for you to determine.’

Dr Shih wanted to ask why Wang Ting-bo had sent for him at all. He was a physician of low rank in the city, lacking even a degree from the Imperial Academy.

‘Are other doctors treating His Excellency’s son?’ he asked.

The official seemed not to hear. They hurried through another gatehouse and a series of small courtyards. Shih had no time to admire the splendid pillars and gilt carvings, marble fountains or miniature gardens. They entered a large courtyard guarded by more soldiers leaning on their halberds. Servants scurried past with buckets of water. Moths and night-flies fluttered round lanterns.