The Mandate of Heaven (15 page)

Other reasons for staying lay all around. Until now he had never travelled much further than the burned-out suburbs of Hou-ming. It was wonderful to be in a limestone country as varied and contorted as his thoughts. To stand in holy Changshan’s shadow and see peaks rising, cloud-capped, snow-capped, dream-haunted.
That
seemed worth a little low company.

Here he could paint and sketch whenever he pleased – at least until the paper and ink ran out. No more herding classes of grubby children for the sake of duty or Father’s conception of it. What about a man’s duty to himself? To his own destiny? The answer came back immediately in Deng Nan-shi’s quizzical voice: ‘Duty is a decent man’s destiny. And he is measured by helping others. The Mandate of Heaven must be earned, Teng!’

How many times had he longed to retort that Grandfather’s dutiful decision to resist the Mongols cost two hundred thousand lives? Had
that
earned the Mandate of Heaven? But, of course, there were some arguments one dared not deploy. For example, that he was enjoying the distance between himself and Father. That an invisible yoke had lifted from his neck – a realisation provoking instant guilt.

It was a relief to reach the clear waters of Mirror Lake and set up his painting equipment in a shadowy corner of the woods, half way up the hillside. Everything felt simple in an exquisitely complex way. All the disparate provinces of his troubled soul found a temporary ruler. His inner resources, memories, physical skill united for one, sublime purpose as he bent over his easel.

First he painted the shrine on its island, surrounded by blankness so the viewer’s higher soul might be reflected in the unstained waters. Then, casting its shadow, the towering, limestone promontory behind which they had found the old abandoned road. He was just about to complete the composition with the stepping stones – thereby connecting the floating island of the spirit to a shore clad with resolute bamboo – when he noticed someone leaving the shrine.

Teng’s brush hovered. He was closer to the building than yesterday and saw clearly that the barefoot figure in robes was female. He realised, too, he must be invisible to anyone below. What was she doing? His eyes opened wide. He leaned forward.

For the young woman – she was young, he could tell that much – was removing her robes until her pale body was quite naked. Teng knew he should look away. Somehow the fast beat of his pulse paralysed his will. She stood with her back to him, swaying as she tied up her long hair. His breath quickened. Now she half turned to reveal the silhouette of pert breast. She waded into the water and began to bathe.

‘I can see why you like painting!’ muttered a sly voice in his ear.

Teng jumped with surprise. His brush slipped and a smear of black ink ruined the careful composition.

‘Phew!’ said Chao. ‘I’m getting so hot I might jump in with her!’

Teng closed his eyes. The excitement in his body had not eased.

‘You wicked dog, Teng!’ chuckled Hua. ‘There we were, thinking you’d got ink for spunk.’

‘Phee-eew!’ growled Chao. ‘Never mind him. Look at that! I wouldn’t mind praying with that little missy down there. And when she sees what meat I’m offering as a sacrifice … Eh, Hua?’

‘Maybe she’s one of those nuns who like a bit of meat when the Abbot isn’t around,’ suggested his friend.

Teng realised they were serious about accosting the nun below.

‘That would not be proper,’ he said, hastily, ‘in fact, I don’t think we should even look at her. I regret my own part in this.’

Chao poked him in the back with a thick finger.

‘Don’t tell
me
what’s a good idea,’ he muttered. ‘Ink boy.’

Teng’s temper flickered. ‘Even so, I believe …’

They were spared further dispute by a slouching figure: Shensi. He strolled up and coughed, noting the aggressive postures of the three young men. Then he spat.

‘Where you been?’ he asked, sullenly.

Hua scowled. ‘None of your business. Here and there. There and here. Visiting old friends.’

‘I’ve found it,’ said Shensi.

‘Found what?’

Shensi pointed up at the hillside above the lake.

‘A shaft,’ he said. ‘The thing we’re looking for.’

Shensi led them round the lake, over the waterfall at its end, well away from the shrine. A winding path through the bamboo groves reached the old roadway. At the top of the gully they found Shensi had set up a tripod on the mound directly above the rockslide. A log dangled vertically from three ropes attached to the tripod.

‘We’re not digging a well,’ said Hua, peering up. ‘You’re wasting our time.’

The young men heard a grating sound. It took a moment to realise Shensi was laughing – if scorn can be mirthful.

‘Get spades, rope, lanterns,’ said the older man, suddenly grave.

Chao sneered. ‘You get ‘em!’

Again the odd grating sound. Teng noticed how few teeth Shensi possessed. The tomb-hunter sat down on a rock.

‘Well then,’ said Hua, turning to Teng, ‘do something useful for a change. Fetch the spades.’

But Teng settled beside Shensi. ‘My job is to read ancient characters. I am a scholar. A gentleman. You fetch.’

Something about Teng’s tone must have resembled Father’s, for Chao and Hua sloped off down the ravine in a foul humour.

It was a pleasant wait in the cool, shady gully. Teng lay back, listening to insects and the cheep of mating birds. An image of the naked woman entering the water kept him amused. Even the rain held off.

Chao and Hua came puffing up the road, burdened with equipment. Shensi rose to meet them and they gathered round a slight, concave indentation in the hillside. Hua kicked at it angrily.

‘We dragged everything up here for
this
?’

Shensi manoeuvred the tripod over the depression.

‘Listen,’ he said.

Then he lifted the log and let it fall. Instead of a dull thud on the stone hillside, there was a hollow sound. A definite echo.

‘Shaft,’ he said, pointing down.

It took less than half an hour to dig through. The earth fell with a clatter into yawning darkness and Teng was glad he did not fall with it. As their spades broke the crust of soil there rose a deep, mournful sigh of released air.

‘Ghosts are escaping,’ said Shensi.

‘Or trying to warn us,’ muttered Teng.

Certainly the air below reeked of brooding decay. Hua retreated a few steps.

‘Warn us?’ he said. ‘Do the books … mention
warnings
?’

‘Yes,’ said Teng, enjoying the effect of his words, ‘and terrible curses.’

‘How do we know it’s not just an old well?’ asked Chao.

Teng shook his head pityingly. Sighed. ‘Think for a change! One would hardly dig a well through solid stone up here. What would be the point?’

He realised Chao and Hua were examining him in an unfriendly way.

‘Wouldn’t
one
?’ demanded Chao.

‘One definitely would
not
,’ replied Teng.

They all leaned forward and looked into the dark mouth of the shaft. Chao poked Teng with his big forefinger for the second time that day.

‘Your turn now,’ he said. ‘Seeing
one
knows so much about it.’

Hua, still shaken by talk of curses, grunted agreement. ‘Get down there to earn your share. We’ll stay here and guard.’

Though Teng looked to Shensi for support, even the tomb-finder’s face was blank – presumably because he didn’t fancy going first himself. And it was the scholar’s job to find any artefacts or writing that might date the shaft.

While they tied a thick hemp rope round Teng’s chest, Shensi explained the situation. ‘They had holes like this for air while digging. And to take out buckets of stone. See if it’s what we think. If it is a grave, see if someone’s robbed it already. That’s often the way.’

Teng had never heard him so voluble.

‘Do your job and I’ll let you share the wine tonight,’ promised Hua for a change, whose perspiration exceeded his exertions. It was the acrid sweat of fear. ‘Do they curse people who are just watching?’ he added.

‘Every time,’ said Teng.

‘Down!’ he called. ‘Down a little further!’

The lamp he held sputtered, illuminating walls of solid stone with a pale, dancing light. Every so often he tested the walls with his booted feet.

‘Down!’ he cried.

Suddenly his probing boots connected with air.

‘Stop!’ he screamed. ‘Stop!’

Perhaps he had descended so far they could not hear him. A moment later he was on solid ground, surrounded by darkness. Instantly the light went out.

A rushing noise like beating wings filled his ears. He began to breathe rapidly. Any moment demons would lunge from the blackness. He had no defence.

Teng tried to slow his heart, counting breaths, screwing his eyes tight to shut out circling ghosts and demons. Finally he calmed himself. He became aware of distant shouts from above, unrecognisable words. With his eyes still closed, he prepared to tug at the rope three times, the signal to haul him up. Only the memory of Hua and Chao’s jeering faces gave him pause. How could he depart without confirming whether it was a tomb or just an ancient mine? Whether thieves had already emptied its treasures?

Teng forced open one eye, then another. No red-faced demons watched from the darkness. The black air swirled with infinitesimal motes of light. He needed a flame.

Gingerly, as though the dark was quicksand that might drown him, he knelt, taking a flint and tinderbox from his belt. Then he set the lamp against his foot so he could find it easily. He felt for the oily wick and struck the flint. Sparks. Struck again and again. The kindling caught, followed by the wick. Silently, like a giant hand opening out, light seeped across a huge oval chamber carved from solid rock.

A moment later Teng closed his eyes. He had seen enough. Too much, if the old stories of curses were true. He tugged sharply at the rope three times. Nothing stirred. Again, more forcefully. Nothing. A dreadful certainty they would throw the rope down on top of him set Teng trembling. Then, with a jerk, his feet left the ground and he was rising. Up into the dark stone shaft. He helped those hauling with scrabbling hands, desperate to breathe pure air, until a ring of light appeared.

They dragged him into the sunshine and he lay face down, ignoring their excited questions. He sought out Shensi’s face and nodded.

The tomb-finder responded with a low, grating laugh that revealed all five of his teeth.

The limestone country was a maze: valleys, lakes, spiralling misshapen hills, ravines terminating in caves that sucked down muttering streams only to release them as singing waterfalls. A place of transformation. Here monsoons dripped through rock to grow fingers of stone, millennium after heedless millennium. Precipices collected windblown earth to host tiny forests high in the air. The people of this barren land were used to clinging: sometimes their fingers slipped.

Hsiung did not imagine losing his grip as he swaggered up a narrow path bordered on one side by a solid cliff wall and on the other by an inglorious fall to jagged rocks. The young man’s walk was all loin and shoulder swing. A long sword with a tasselled hilt hung from a scabbard on his back and throwing knives protruded from his girdle. He wore a leather coat sewn with plates of iron. A bright red headscarf held flowing black hair in check and proclaimed him a criminal: a Red Turban rebel, eternal foe to the Great Khan.

Half way up the cliff Hsiung paused. Silver-backed monkeys scuttled along a ledge and he envied their freedom.

The path climbed to a wide opening in the mountainside, carved by ancient rivers that had long ago changed course. The result was a huge, echoing limestone cave. A shadowy, bat-haunted world. Here, other two-legged creatures had built nests; it was to them Hsiung was bound.

A one-storey wooden house had been constructed on the floor of the

cave, its presence rendered doubly incongruous by a gaudy, festive style of architecture. One might have mistaken it for the dwelling of a vulgar merchant, except for the constant squeak of bats and sticky rain of their droppings.

Hsiung paused to greet half a dozen crossbowmen and archers guarding the cave entrance. All wore red headscarves like his own.