Taming Poison Dragons Page 2

  Thousand- li-drunk has many peculiarities and secrets.

  He refuses to eat any kind of grain. Instead his bamboo basket holds centipedes, spiders, and field crickets. These he impales on a cedar thorn, stripping away wings, legs, feelers, and stings, with every sign of relish. Finally he dunks them in cups of wine and swallows them whole, crunching and muttering. I once enquired about his diet and he replied that he prefers spiders because they make him feel like a high official. Crickets taste like peasants, except insects are fatter.

  This year he seems out of sorts. After babbling that mountains are bones and eternity their flesh, he turns to me with a grave frown.

  ‘I left Chunming as quick as I could. Hah! Soldiers on every street corner. Angry lice and stinging wasps. Hah! Is it not true that a certain Second Chancellor is on his way to visit you? So great a man for such a humble ant-hill!’

  I am astounded, then realise he must have passed P’ei Ti’s litter and escort on the road to Chunming. The man rocks on his heels, but refuses to answer my eager questions concerning P’ei Ti’s safety.

  ‘A fine lady remembers Yun Cai the poet,’ he says, slyly.

  ‘But Lord Yun Cai is so tall and handsome a gentleman!

  How could any lady forget him?’

  *

  Then he breaks into a song popular thirty years ago, one of my own. The way he sings is indescribable, beating out the time on his basket, more raving than music.

  Avoid the reach of sharp swords, Stay clear of tempting glances,

  A sword stroke will cripple your arm, A weak wheel breaks after ten yards, One night of joy will scar your soul.

  I become agitated and demand what he means. I have a strange thought he has been spying on me. Thousand- li-drunk roars with laughter, drains his cup, and swaggers away, as though he has merely passed wind at my gate.

  Next year I might not be so welcoming. Having considered the matter, I believe he must have recalled my song from his youth, and poured it out. Words are how he retches. As for his reference to a lady, who is to say he was not referring to the moon? I must maintain composure.

  I have convinced myself P’ei Ti will arrive today or not at all. Perhaps he caught wind of the rebellion in good time and fled back to the capital. Part of me longs to shelter him, whatever the danger. We might hide in some obscure monastery like hermits, drinking and talking of the old days until the storm passes.

  I decide to walk to the lowest pasture of our winding valley. There the Western Highway passes, and I would be sure to meet him.

  Daughter-in-law labours to persuade me I must travel in the family litter. I reply that an old man has earned his eccentricities. Besides, my legs, though unattractive and knobbly, are stronger than a frog’s. Her concern has little to do with my health. She would consider it a great dishonour if I met our noble guest on foot, like a peasant.

  How little she understands men of our kind. It is true P’ei Ti always cared for display more than I, though that is another matter.

  I finally agree to be escorted by my grandsons. We proceed through the village and people leave their houses to make obeisance. There are a hundred families and as many wooden houses in Wei Village, a few roofed with red tiles, most thatched with reeds. The lanes and streets are muddy at this time of year; they smell of dung, damp straw and chicken-droppings.

  I instruct my grandsons to offer a present of rice to a widow. She lines up her children with their foreheads pressed to the wet ground, though I urge her to rise. Wudi rushes out of his courtyard as I pass and begs to accompany me. A refusal would humiliate him. He suggests I take a cup of wine so that his wife has time to prepare a basket of food.

  ‘You are kind,’ I say. ‘But I am impatient to meet my friend. Why not send your sons after us when the basket is prepared?’

  So my quiet walk turns into a procession. There’s no help for it. One cannot clap with one hand. I lead, and my followers come a few yards behind, talking softly among themselves.

  We pass hillsides lined with spruce and maple, dense thickets of fern. This early in the year, spring is more a promise than delight. Two troops of monkeys squabble for possession of a plum grove and we laugh at their antics. When I look back, the village is framed by mountains and peaks capped with white cloud. I gaze for a while, leaning on my stick.

  Wudi’s sons run up with laden baskets, panting like horses. A wry smile takes shape in my soul. I wouldn’t be ashamed to meet P’ei Ti now, with grandsons and loyal servants around me. He might see I have not entirely frittered my early promise. Still I fear he might find me ridiculous, attended by bumpkins.

  Disagreeable thoughts.

  We reach the lowest pasture, the border of my land.

  Here, beside the High Road, the river forms a small lake called Mallow Flower Marsh. Wudi and his sons gather sticks for a fire to boil water and heat wine, using my excursion as a holiday. Grandsons play wrestling games and for a while I am forgotten.

  I follow the lake’s rim through a path lined with reeds.

  The earth smells of rotting things. Ripples flow toward the shore, stirring lily pads where insects flit. Turning a corner, I halt. And stare.

  Deserters. Such they plainly are. Three dog-thin men crouching in a hollow by the lake, leather armour caked with mud, uniforms like tattered flags.

  For a surprised moment we consider each other. My heart races. Desperate men, their hides not worth a grain of millet if caught. Hands reach for swords. Their hollow eyes strip me bare – the purse on my girdle, silk gown and boots – I might feed them for a month.

  The reeds murmur and sigh in the wind. One of the deserters steps toward me, looking round nervously.

  Another follows. Then the third.

  ‘Hey!’ he calls. ‘Old man!’

  I back away.

  ‘Don’t make trouble, if you know what’s good for you!’

  A small stream surrounded by black, peaty earth lies between us. It might delay them for a moment, no more.

  ‘I am not alone,’ I call out. ‘My friends are near.’

  At this they pause, listen. I take two steps back. The leader curses, then rushes forward, his feet sinking in the bog. I wheel and stumble up the path. Hopeless flight! They are a third my age. I gain ten paces before they appear on the path behind me. Now they have sure footing and reach out their hands as they run. They do not even bother to draw their weapons. And that is what saves me.

  For round a bend in the path I collide with Wudi and his sons. They clutch me as I slip in the mire, crying out fearfully. We fall silent. The deserters have stopped in confusion, a few paces away. They are outnumbered, and by burly, well-fed men. For a long moment both sides weigh their chances. It is fortunate Wudi’s sons brought their staves; and the path is narrow, a bad place for swords.

  The leader drags back one of his companions and runs for it. The other joins their flight. For a while we see reed heads waving, hear frantic crashing. They are gone. The lakeside resumes its calm.

  All afternoon I wait anxiously for P’ei Ti, but the Western Highway remains empty. Not a single traveller passes, which is unusual even in the coldest weeks of winter. We see nothing more of the deserters. The way from Chunming is blocked. No one may reach through.

  It is as though P’ei Ti has been swallowed whole. I withdraw to my room and read sheaves of poems we composed together during a hundred drinking parties, jousting with brush and ink. In this, at least, I was always victor. His faded calligraphy summons the man himself, the older brother I never had.

  I read the letter announcing his visit to Wei until I know it by heart. There is no indication of his chosen route, except that he meant to travel through Chunming. That is bad enough. Worse are rumours of more fighting, a reverse for General An-Shu, who has retreated to Chunming so he may gather his forces.

  I try to recall what I know of this General An-Shu. By repute, he is not a man for tepid measures. In Hunan Province he earned the title ‘Butcher’ An-Shu. Certainly, buryi
ng a thousand rebels alive might be viewed as an excessive punishment. And now, for all his previous zeal in the Emperor’s cause, he has turned traitor. His soldiers are said to be the most disciplined in the army; such discipline stems from harsh inducements.

  Where P’ei Ti might hide in such disorder, I dare not think. One thing is certain: the Son of Heaven’s Second Chancellor would make a plump prize for General An-Shu, for he is familiar with His Majesty’s most intimate affairs – and weaknesses. A shrewd rebel might make much of such knowledge.

  Eldest Son comes to my room. He looks graver than usual, an achievement for him.

  ‘Father, I have just returned from the village,’ he says.

  ‘Horsemen rode through this afternoon on the way to Hsia Pass. They looked like messengers.’

  ‘Did they stop?’

  ‘No, they rode in haste.’

  ‘That is a pity. Did they wear the colours of General An-Shu?’

  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.

  *

  I rise at cockcrow, tired of itchy blankets. The servants are confused to see me about the kitchens so early. They bow and call out, ‘Long live the lord!’

  ‘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.