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  TAMING POISON DRAGONS

  Tim Murgatroyd

  About the Author

  Tim Murgatroyd is an English teacher who lives with his family in York. He has remained fascinated by ancient China since his teens, when he discovered a slim volume of Chinese poetry in a second hand bookshop.

  Taming Poison Dragons was first released in hardback in 2009. Its sequel, Breaking Bamboo, follows in 2010.

  The author is currently writing the third volume in the trilogy which chronicles the turbulent years of the Mongol occupation.

  Copyright

  Myrmidon Books

  Rotterdam House

  116 Quayside

  Newcastle upon Tyne

  NE1 3DY

  www.myrmidonbooks.com

  Published by Myrmidon 2010

  Copyright © Tim Murgatroyd 2010

  Tim Murgatroyd has asserted his right under the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988 to be identified as the author of this work.

  The poetry of Wang Wei is taken from The Columbia Book of Chinese Poetry (from Early Times to the Thirteenth Century) Translated and edited by Burton Watson © 1984 Columbia University Press Reproduced with permission from the publishers This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.

  A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.

  ISBN 978-1-905802-46-3

  Set in 11/14pt Sabon by Falcon Oast Graphic Arts Limited, East Hoathly, East Sussex

  Printed and bound in the UK by JF Print Ltd., Sparkford, Somerset.

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the prior written permission of the publishers.

  This book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, resold, hired out or otherwise circulated without the publisher’s prior consent in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition including this condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

  1 3 5 7 9 10 8 6 4 2

  First ebook edition 2010

  For my dearest Ruth, Tom and Oliver

  Contents

  Visiting the Temple of Accumulated Fragrance

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Epilogue: How Clouds Float

  Visiting the Temple of Accumulated Fragrance

  I didn’t know where the temple was,

  pushing mile on mile among cloudy peaks;

  old trees, peopleless paths,

  deep mountains, somewhere a bell.

  Brook voices choke over craggy boulders,

  sun rays turn cold in the green pines.

  At dusk by the bend of a deserted pond,

  a monk in meditation, taming poison dragons.*

  Wang Wei

  * The poison dragons are passions and illusions that impede enlightenment. They also recall the tale of a poison dragon that lived in a lake and killed passing merchants until it was subdued by a certain Prince P’an-t’o through the use of spells. The dragon changed into a man and apologised for its evil ways.

  one

  ‘. . . No wise hermit, that recluse with shaking hands,

  somehow sounding a ghost-white lute.

  When he blinks, peers round, no one notices:

  just the wind rustling twigs and memories . . .’

  Western China. Spring, 1196.

  Daughter-in-law chides me mercilessly.

  ‘Honoured Father,’ she says. ‘Why do you not wear the flannel shirt I sewed for you? Did I blunt my best needle so you wouldn’t wear it, heh?’

  She betrays her lack of breeding through this casual

  ‘heh’, and I wonder if I chose a proper wife for my son.

  ‘Your tender concern is a mark of true duty,’ I reply.

  ‘But Daughter-in-law’s best needle rests against her teeth.’

  Such ripostes keep her quiet for a while. She’s working out my meaning.

  ‘Honoured Father, you do not eat enough millet for breakfast. You will catch cold. And your bowels will suffer.

  Do not blame me when you run like Babbling Brook!’

  ‘Give me the millet, woman. Don’t you know it is my nature to babble like a stream?’

  Eldest Son coughs. He has inherited my straight back and tallness but little else. Where my face is restless and given to many moods, his is round and bland as a full moon. He sometimes furrows his brow slightly when perturbed. Today is no exception.

  ‘Be still, wife,’ he warns, and for once she subsides.

  We listen to the gibbons crying in the woods above Wei Village.

  ‘Father, will you fish today?’ he asks.

  I cannot help myself.

  ‘I’ve been a fisherman all my life, whether I go to Babbling Brook or not. Do you remember when I taught you The Fisherman’s Song? You were just a boy.’

  He clears his throat. He remembers. In ways I might not like.

  ‘What news in the letter you received, Honoured Father?’

  demands Daughter-in-law. ‘You promised to tell us.’

  ‘Ah,’ I say. ‘That letter is like blossom. Who knows when it will bear fruit?’

  While I scoop millet with my chopsticks I sense frustrated glances. One can be too distant.

  ‘It is from my old friend, P’ei Ti. He promises to visit us soon.’

  ‘Quite so,’ says my son anxiously, weighing what is expected of him from such a guest.

  Daughter-in-law flutters. She hates to be caught out, so I help her.

  ‘You must set aside wine. No more is needed for old men. We like to drink and feed on our memories.’

  ‘Just wine, heh? Is this P’ei Ti noble?’

  ‘Of course!’ rebukes my son. ‘Have you not heard Father speak of him? His Excellency P’ei Ti is the Second Chancellor to the Son of Heaven. He has the ear of His Imperial Majesty!’

  ‘Just wine,’ I say, gently. ‘The rest will take care of itself.’

  In my heart I am less sure; and secretly ashamed of our simple life here, though I bear the title ‘Lord’. So does every cock on its fence. It is no small obligation to greet a man like P’ei Ti at your door.

  Our home, known locally as Three-Step-House, perches on the contours of a hill above the village. It consists of three large buildings, all of one storey, connected by brick-lined stairs cut into the hillside. The lowest building is fronted by a walled courtyard and gatehouse. The rooms are constructed of maple and pine, with red tile roofs.

  Terracotta lions, dragons and phoenixes decorate the eaves like guardian spirits. As a small boy I believed they came to life when I was asleep, hopping from ridge to ridge, conversing in the language of the Eight Winds.

  For the next week Three-Step-House is invaded by an army of scents, marshalled by Daughter-in-law. She is preparing lucky sauces for the visit. Aniseed bears the scent of dignity; limes are tart as watchful marriage brokers, and as powerful. Daughter-in-law’s angular face grows flushed as she works, determined not to be shamed.

  The maid and a girl from the village are her assistants.

  Lame Fui, the wine-seller, delivers a dozen jars which I insist on testing for worthiness. That night I take down my lute and sing half the Book Of Songs before my s
on leads me to bed. He does not comprehend I am singing to the sickle moon, and that she doesn’t care if I’m in tune. I might even labour my point in rhyme. Yet I sleep well for once, ghosts banished, and dream of nothing at all.

  Waking brings a conviction that P’ei Ti will arrive today, and I tell Eldest Son. He nods gravely, then excuses himself to instruct the servants. Later he takes out his small bow and shoots fowl in the reeds around the river.

  Daughter-in-law anxiously watches the road climbing through Wei Village. She dresses with special care, her hair piled a foot high, held in place with combs shaped like peonies and swallows.

  Even my grandsons are infected by the fever. I inflame them further by relating stories of P’ei Ti’s illustriousness, and my less glorious deeds when we were young. I teach them an old song:

  Yoking my chariot I’m merciless to the horse.

  Ride like a prince through the streets of Lo.

  In Lo Town everything pleases me!

  High and low mingle like thieves.

  The widest streets need lanes to join them.

  How noble the houses of the royal counts!

  A long feast keeps us young and thoughtless, Casting no shadows for sorrow to haunt.

  The children sing it over and over in high, excited voices. Eldest Son only dares to rebuke them when he thinks I cannot hear.

  *

  Later, my eye strays to the three bronze-bound chests I brought here when I returned in disgrace. Decades have darkened the wood. The varnish has cracked like lines on a face. I unwrap a bundle from my long, maple-wood chest and, with unsteady hands, take out my old sword.

  Its vermilion tassels have faded. It is too heavy for me to twirl as I once did. Gripping the hilt fills me with repug-nance and a strange excitement, so I put it away, afraid of what I have become. When I look up my quiet son is watching from the doorway. I brush away tears and pretend to have rheumy eyes.

  ‘Father,’ he says, softly. ‘Why not test another of Lame Fui’s jars before we eat?’

  A good son. I reward his thoughtfulness by reciting some of my poems. He stifles yawns behind a dragging sleeve.

  A delegation approaches the gatehouse, holding their caps and muttering. I have watched them climb from the village through the morning mist, arguing all the way.

  Disagreeable visitors, I’m certain.

  I descend reluctantly to the Middle House, sending a servant to fetch my second-best gown. I even run a comb through my thin grey hair and wispy beard. Once robed, I await the delegation, as Father received plaintiffs in his ebony chair. A tedious time. First they must get past Eldest Son, who I hear questioning them in the courtyard below.

  At last they are led before me.

  All bow, as is fitting. I nod agreeably and clap for tea.

  The maids bustle away. This mark of condescension sets my visitors at ease. There is Guan the innkeeper, Li Sha who has done well for himself and leases three farms from me, Chiao Sung the blacksmith. All good men in their way. They stand uncertainly until Old Wudi, my bailiff and village headman, clears his throat. Wudi is short and round; people often remark on his resemblance to the Fat-belly Buddha.

  ‘Lord Yun Cai,’ he begins. ‘We hesitate to interrupt your meditations. We would seek your advice, sir.’

  I nod sagely.

  ‘Lord Yun Cai,’ continues Wudi. ‘May we know if you have heard the rumours from the east?’

  Li Sha interjects excitedly.

  ‘Rebellion and civil war! It is said General An-Shu has raised an army of fifty thousand!’

  Wudi calms him with a gesture. They wait impatiently for my reply.

  ‘I have heard no talk of revolt,’ I say. ‘On what authority do you spread these rumours?’

  ‘Li Sha was at Crossroad Market yesterday,’ says Wudi, in his cautious way. ‘He counted over a hundred people who had fled Chunming, camping by the roadside. They told him General An-Shu had fought a battle at Yunchow Ford and filled the dyke with His Imperial Highness’s men. They said Chunming has fallen to the rebels. Those who refuse to kowtow to An-Shu are hung by their ankles from the city gates.’

  This is grave news indeed. Chunming is only a hundred li from Wei. It also lies on P’ei Ti’s route from the capital.

  I dare not imagine the consequences if he has been captured.

  ‘An-Shu?’ I say, flustered. ‘Can we be sure?’

  Wudi and Li Sha exchange a look. I sense irritation.

  ‘Others have confirmed it,’ says Wudi.

  The tea arrives and conversation must cease. They sip from steaming bowls where they stand. At last the maid gathers empty bowls on a black lacquer tray and we begin again. The pause has given me time to compose myself.

  ‘If General An-Shu has been victorious he will march on the capital,’ I say. ‘His best chance of success lies in speed.

  With each week that passes, His Imperial Highness will gather more troops from the frontier and prepare a counter-attack. However, if General An-Shu is defeated in battle or threatened by superior forces, he may flee back towards the mountains. Even then it is not certain he would choose to retreat through our district. We must await events.’

  ‘What of the bandits higher up the valley?’ replies Li Sha. ‘A dozen deserters have joined them, demanding grain and wine from the shepherds, who have barely enough for themselves!’

  ‘We must be calm,’ I say. ‘We have dealt with brigands before.’

  ‘Lord Yun Cai will remember,’ says Wudi, tactfully.

  ‘That troops from Chunming chased off the last band of brigands. Yet all His Imperial Majesty’s forces are either dead or have gone over to General An-Shu.’

  ‘What are we to do?’ demands Li Sha.

  I am beginning to dislike the fellow, but that is unreasonable. Has he laboured twelve hours a day, all his life, only to be ruined by jackals? I feel helpless. All I can think about is P’ei Ti.

  ‘I must consider,’ I say. ‘I will summon you when I have decided a course of action.’

  The men mutter until my coldest stare reminds them of their place.

  When they have gone I sit alone in the long, silent room. Rebellions are frequent in the Empire, yet this one is the closest to our remote district in over seventy years.

  It is my duty to ensure the villagers come to no harm: I am their Father, and must preserve even the most humble.

  My own father’s chair creaks as I stir. He would have known what to do. Perhaps I should invite the neighbouring lords to a banquet and suggest we raise a militia.

  But for over thirty years I have kept myself a stranger from my neighbours, who I find uncouth. For their part, they are mindful I live here in banishment, and avoid my bad odour.

  Another fear gnaws. The last I heard, several years ago it is true, Youngest Son was rumoured to be serving in the army of General An-Shu. But of him I never think.

  I sip cold tea and do nothing. Easier to feel weak and ashamed than stir. Finches quarrel in the eaves of the house. Shadows are gathering in the corners of the room.

  Sunset brings rain. This is a wet region. At dawn and dusk, cloud rims glow between mountain peaks with an eerie light.

  I listen to the rain as though to a great truth. It plays the earth like a festival of instruments. Drum tap on roof tiles, drip drip from twig and eave, click of tiny stick or hollow brass finger-cymbal. Day and night the river in the valley sings.

  I step outside, look to the moon for comfort. How lonely she looks! Perhaps I detect my own sadness.

  Far to the east, in the capital, Linan, the moon looked different when I was young. Cleaner, brighter, as I wandered the city thinking of Su Lin and her jade beauty, of the glorious man I would become. Surely I misremember.

  The moon looks the same everywhere, then and now.

  I sigh, a little ashamed of my drunkenness when P’ei Ti might arrive at any time, possibly pursued by enemies. Yet only a little ashamed. Why should an old man be drier than racing clouds?

  We h
ave a visitor to Wei Village, and it is not P’ei Ti.

  He appears at our gate around noon and sits beneath the old maple, glaring at the rain, protected by a leaky umbrella. As usual I have my chair carried out. A crowd of peasants and children gawp from a distance. Truly he is worth a stare.

  Thousand- li-drunk is around my age but there similarities end. His face is round as a roaring lion’s, tufted with huge black eyebrows and a general’s bushy beard, filthy and be-draggled. The reek of wine seeps from all pores.

  He seems stupefied all day long, until you catch a red, sly gleam in his drunkard’s eyes. No one knows his real name because he has never uttered it.

  He has come early this year. Usually he passes – or rolls – through Wei Valley in the fifth month, carrying a bamboo basket with a rattling lid. He first appeared at Three-Step-House around the time I returned here from the capital, decades ago, shortly after my hasty marriage and Father’s death.

  Thousand- li-drunk’s arrival provokes an uneasy holiday in the village. Within minutes a hundred people are following, whispering and pointing when they think he can’t see. The village children are delighted and terrified by our visitor. They call him Thousand- li-drunk because it is said he has traversed the entire world seven times like an Immortal. Others claim he was once a high official in the capital and learned every secret. That is why he has taken to the roads, through pure disgust. Others say he should be whipped out of the village as a worthless beggar. Daughter-in-law is among them, though I point out all men possess a little good.