The Mandate of Heaven (10 page)

‘You really mean to accompany Sergeant P’ao to the Salt Pans?’ he asked.

‘Yes.’

Teng shook his head. ‘Then I will never see you again. He will sell you as a slave.’

The two boys sat with bowed heads. In a far away voice, Hsiung said, ‘When I visited Sergeant P’ao, guess who else I met? Yun Shu. She was sweeping the courtyard with the maids. She wouldn’t look at me. But her feet were as big as ever.’

‘Sweeping?’ said Teng. ‘That is a common servant’s work.’

Realising the implication of his words took a moment. Hsiung’s reaction, however, was instantaneous. ‘Like me?’ he asked, coldly.

‘No, not you, I meant …’

Their thread of intimacy snapped.

‘Remember your promise,’ said Hsiung, dragging open the swollen door with an agonising creak and groan. ‘Only, please tell Master … Honourable Deng Nan-shi … where I have gone. And thank him. Thank him for everything. Tell him that when I have found my father I will repay my debt to your family a thousand times over! I will never forget!’

‘You won’t dare go to the Salt Pans!’ cried Teng. ‘All you ever do is get angry with me! And boast!’

But Hsiung had gone. Teng’s words echoed in an empty chamber.

At dawn Teng sat upright in bed. In a moment he was padding through cold, dark corridors to the kitchen. A familiar smell greeted him and he laughed. The stove was warm, a neat fire smoking. For all his bragging and fierce soldiers’ oaths, Hsiung had decided not to leave after all. Teng rubbed his hands before the flames. Though it would be tempting to jeer, he was determined to say nothing. He would even help prepare the morning millet to show he did not view Hsiung as a common servant.

After a while he grew restless and was about to step outside when he noticed something wrong: Hsiung’s pile of neatly folded bedding and clothes had vanished. Only a single blanket remained.

‘Fool!’ cried Teng, dashing out into the courtyard.

A thick lake mist was rolling inland. Droplets beaded plants and wooden surfaces.
Think
, he urged himself,
a scholar of high purpose thinks before he acts
.

Then Hsiung’s intention became obvious. If he was to leave for the Salt Pans with Sergeant P’ao they would hardly crawl upon muddy roads for hundreds of weary
li
. Not when a swift passage across the lake was possible. In addition, Teng had noticed a small fleet of river junks gathering in the harbour over the last few days.

He considered rousing Deng Nan-shi. But a perverse desire held him back. Yesterday, on the stone tortoise’s back, he had imagined saving Hsiung from hordes of Mongols. Now was his chance to be a real
xia
!

Picking up his bamboo sword, he hurried into the misty lanes of Monkey Hat Hill then out into the stirring city. Although he had only visited the Port District once, Teng did not lose his way.

But when he reached the stone bridge over Bright River, he found a queue of people and carts. Soldiers were searching all Chinese for contraband or hidden weapons; Mongols or their servants were waved through without question.

‘What’s happening?’ he asked an old peasant woman carrying a basket of winter greens. Luckily, she gave no sign of recognising him as a cursed Deng.

‘Rebels,’ she whispered, ‘spies in the city.’

He joined a small crowd gathered round a poster beside the bridge, discussing a crude picture of a grossly fat man reminiscent of Lord Buddha and the words:
Beware traitors! Beware bandits! Beware Liu Shui, notorious Red Turban and Yueh Fei bandit! Beware the despicable brigand known as Hornets’ Nest!
A reward was offered, large enough to buy a dozen farms.

Teng looked round guiltily. He had no illusions where the fat Liu Shui was hiding at this very moment. How could Father be so reckless? To take such a risk after all their years of caution?

A low bell tolled across the city. The Third Hour of daylight: surely the fleet would not delay. He must hurry.

None of the soldiers questioned him as he crossed the bridge. Fog was dispersing beneath a feeble sun when he reached the harbour. A gloomy day was commencing, heavy with drudgery and tedium for thousands in the Port District. For others, a day that would end their future.

The Red Turban prisoners had been chained together in groups of ten, their defiance choked by bulging wooden neck yokes. Most were barefoot and in rags. Nearly four hundred prisoners waited on the wharf for transportation to the Salt Pans. Of those, half would be lucky to last a year.

Many soldiers had gathered to ensure the embarkation went smoothly. This was less straightforward than it seemed. In the winter dry season water levels on the lake fell and one could only berth large junks at the end of long wooden jetties projecting into the water. In between lay fetid, clinging mud, pecked by white birds.

As Teng drew near, a unit of ten prisoners staggered up the wooden jetty, scrutinised by a huddle of officials. After a suitable pause, another ten followed. A crowd of on-lookers had also gathered, held back by spearmen from Prince Arslan’s garrison. Teng slipped between longshoremen and merchants until he reached the front, where immediately he spotted Hsiung.

The servant boy lurked near the jetty among the Salt Minister’s motley bodyguard, crouching between two large trunks. He had hidden himself behind Sergeant P’ao’s broad back.

Salt Minister Gui had been honoured with supervising the embarkation of the prisoners. His silken robes declared fitness for high responsibility, his demeanour a proper contempt for lesser creatures. Yet he seemed oddly distracted, overly absorbed by his abacus. The loading was going well: already three-quarters of the prisoners had shuffled aboard the merchant junks.

Teng wondered how to attract his friend’s attention. Hsiung stared constantly at the ground to avoid the Salt Minister’s notice. He wore a peasant’s wide, conical straw hat to hide his face. Calling out to him would be dangerous. The wharf was silent except for the clank of chains and scrape of feet, punctuated by harsh commands.

At that moment came the trotting of many iron-shod hooves and the rumble of wheels. The crowd parted in alarm as a black stallion pranced across the cobbles, its rump flicked playfully by a riding whip. An exceptionally sleek and handsome nobleman drove the beast forward. A name flitted round the wharf:
Jebe Khoja! Jebe Khoja!

The rider caught sight of Gui and changed direction. Despite the muddy ground, officials fell to their knees. Yet the Salt Minister was slower than his fellows. He stared past his master at a cavalcade of litters and carriages bumping into the square.

In the lead came Jebe Khoja’s personal carriage, gilded and lacquered, laden with revellers. Its occupants made no effort to conceal themselves. Within lolled half a dozen beauties, peeping out excitedly, their faces white with make-up, fans fluttering like agitated butterfly wings. Among them, to Teng’s great surprise, sat his former neighbour, Golden Lotus. Though innocent for his age, Teng sensed the significance of his presence among the courtesans.

Salt Minister Gui surely did, too, for he remained upright to greet his master. Now the silence on the wharf was complete. Everyone watched the two men. Jebe Khoja leaned forward in his saddle, pointed the whip and spoke sharply. Casting a baffled glance at the carriage, Gui finally lowered himself to his knees.

Jebe Khoja trotted over to the remaining prisoners and examined them from his horse. Satisfied, he cantered back to the still kneeling Gui and spoke words of praise. Then he trotted back to his carriage and leaned down from the saddle, murmuring to the ladies inside. Whatever he said provoked a flurry of fans.

Once more the cavalcade proceeded on its way – carriages of acrobats, singing girls, yes-sayers and hangers-on – as well as scores of noble Mongol lords and wealthy Chinese merchants, all bound for a picnic and entertainment to celebrate Jebe Khoja’s triumph over the Red Turban rebels. Even now the Pleasure Gardens attached to Golden Bright Monastery were in readiness, pavilions heated by braziers, fire-pits roasting every kind of meat, four-legged and fowl, fish and lake dolphin. Tracks had been marked out for the racing of horses and other feats of skill.

Teng glanced at Gui. The Salt Minister’s abacus had reappeared in his hands. He seemed lost, as though calculating an impossible sum.

No one spoke or moved until Jebe Khoja had left and the rumble of wheels died away. Abruptly the silence was broken by a mocking laugh, almost a croak. It came from one of the prisoners: ‘Look who’s riding the Salt Minister’s yellow eel boy!’

A jeer followed from someone hidden in the crowd. Soon dozens were hooting, whistling and calling out Gui’s name. The Salt Minister rose to his feet, blinking at his persecutors.

He ordered Sergeant P’ao to drag out the prisoner who had spoken. A savage beating commenced. All laughter ceased. The officers leading Prince Arslan’s soldiers grew uneasy. Sensing the possibility of a riot, they gathered their men round the remaining Red Turbans awaiting embarkation. Others levelled crossbows at the crowd.

By now the beaten man’s face was mangled, his nose a bloody hole. Gui’s fishy eyes stared round and spotted Hsiung amidst the baggage. For a moment there was partial recognition. His expression darkened slowly. The boy’s face connected him to another wayward possession: his disobedient daughter, Yun Shu.

‘What is
that
b-boy doing here?’ he demanded.

Teng did not hear Sergeant P’ao’s muttered reply.

‘How do you know he is not a spy?’ asked Gui, excitedly. ‘His family are tainted with treachery! Take away the one you’ve punished and put this b-boy in his place.’

For a moment it seemed Sergeant P’ao might refuse. Then, with a lowered head, he ordered his men to seize Hsiung.

Teng could barely stir for trembling. Oh, he must not just stand there! He should find a sword and cut his friend free! Capture a horse and gallop into the hills! He watched in horror as Hsiung was chained to another prisoner. Meanwhile the broken body of the man he replaced had been thrown off the jetty to drown in the lake mud.

Hsiung struggled against his new bindings until a sharp command from Sergeant P’ao stopped him. The boy gazed beseechingly into his protector’s face. Sergeant P’ao whispered urgently in the boy’s ear then moved away to chivvy the last groups of prisoners onto the jetty, his expression unreadable.

Perhaps madness made Teng reckless. Despite his fear, he stepped out of the crowd, first one, then two and a third pace forward. It was not too late. Confucius taught that a good man always admonishes the wicked, whatever the cost to himself. He could yet protest to the Salt Minister that Hsiung was no spy. He would speak out! It was his family’s destiny to risk everything for duty. That was the path Grandfather had chosen, the noble path of Yueh Fei. Yet Teng, longing to speak, could only shiver, miserably exposed before the crowd, his head bowed, hands clenched.

Finally his agitation attracted the Minister of Salt’s attention. Gui stared, recognising him as his unworthy daughter’s other confederate. This realisation broke what little courage Teng possessed. He slunk back and disappeared into the crowd, dodging between tall legs. The cruel hands he anticipated, determined to clutch, hold, hurt never came. Soon he had escaped into the busy streets of the Port District where few noticed a hurrying boy.

Teng did not flee to Deng Mansions. Home was no longer safe since Liu Shui’s arrival – and he feared leading an angry Salt Minister Gui to Father’s door.

Up the Hundred Stairs he scrambled, chest heaving, dragging himself with his hands. Past the brassbound gates of Cloud Abode Monastery and into the bamboo groves. At once the city seemed far away. He was protected by a maze of delicate stems, shadows, pale winter sunbeams slanting across stone and moss. His pace slowed. Then grief began: images of Hsiung in chains, bound to misery and ceaseless toil forever.

Deeper, deeper into the woods, his steps directed by fate or chance, until he found himself outside the ruined watchtower, its ancient walls besieged by bushes and brambles. For a long moment he dared not enter. This cursed place was the source of all their troubles. But that was why he must enter, at least one more time, to face the hungry ghosts trapped inside.