Breaking Bamboo Read online

  ‘I have decided, Father,’ he said. ‘We shall not ride straight to Chunming but double back to Five Willows Ford, though it takes us deeper into enemy territory. That way, we shall be near water and you might find more little fishes to set free.’

  He might have added, ‘and you can wash there.’ The old man’s fox-smell was overwhelming. A look of obvious slyness crossed Father’s face and Guang felt a stab of revulsion, followed by guilt. He resolved to never demean Father by mentioning fishes again.

  ‘I like their fragrance, their scent,’ said the old man, as though reading his thought. ‘They remind me of something else.’

  Then he chuckled, his face becoming a mask.

  It was early afternoon when they left the road, hiding their tracks by following the course of a deep, fast-flowing stream until they reached a forest track. Sunbeams slanted between the pine trees. By dusk they had crossed two precipitous valleys and still Five Willows Ford lay several li distant. He heard no sound of pursuit. It seemed his stratagem had worked, yet Guang was not foolish enough to expect Khan Bayke to gallop all the way to Chunming. Sooner or later he would turn back.

  There would be men among Bayke’s retinue skilful at reading hoof-prints.

  Five Willows Ford appeared as a glow through the trees.

  Guang halted at the forest edge and examined the village below.

  Coloured lanterns lit a few stalls and he heard drifting music.

  A notorious tavern stood in the village square, a haunt of out-laws and bandits. Half the goods traded at Five Willows Ford mocked the law, if only by ignoring taxes. Here the Mongols’ curfew went unheeded.

  ‘Father,’ he said. ‘We will tether the horses at the outskirts of the village and I will find food. You must not wander off or Bayke will seize you. Do you understand, Father? Bayke will tie you to a wooden yoke and drag you behind his horse!’

  That prospect made Lord Yun cringe and mutter in alarm to someone invisible. Guang felt ashamed for them both.

  In the village square, he approached an affable butcher and led him back to the horses. It took little persuasion to sell them for a tenth of their value.

  ‘I won’t ask where they came from,’ said the man, winking, as well he might at such a bargain.

  ‘Make sure they are out of the village within the hour,’ said Guang, quite as pleasantly. The prospect of Bayke’s splendid warhorse being sliced into strips and eaten by hungry peasants gratified him hugely.

  Now they had several strings of the Great Khan’s new-minted cash. Guang hoped it would be enough. He bought noodles and fried belly-pork. Lord Yun ate the meal in silence, dabbing his lips afterwards on his son’s coat, which lay on the ground between them. Guang was pleased to see the return of his father’s former dainty manners. The food seemed to make him strangely lucid: ‘Guang,’ he said. ‘Where are you taking me?’

  His son stopped chewing. After so much madness he found the transformation oddly disturbing.

  ‘To safety, Father. You will live with. . .’ He felt reluctant to utter Shih’s name, so long unmentionable in their family.

  ‘. . . with your Youngest Son, should we get that far.’

  The old man visibly trembled.

  ‘Shih is dead!’ he exclaimed, in a baffled tone. ‘I cannot live with the dead. No, I must live with you, Guang, for you are my only son! Your pretty little wife, my pretty Daughter-in-law, will attend to my needs. She is pretty, eh?’

  Though he possessed neither home nor wife, Guang knew Lord Yun must be kept calm.

  ‘It shall be as you say, Father,’ he muttered.

  Yet Lord Yun remained downcast and afraid.

  At the waterfront they found several small river craft bound for Chunming. One was due to leave before dawn, carrying a cargo of spruce logs. Its captain regarded him suspiciously, demanding most of their Mongol coins in exchange for passage.

  ‘Sleep in the bottom of the boat,’ said the surly waterman.

  ‘Stay there until we leave.’

  In the hour before dawn, Guang perched on the stern and gazed at the river. Father lay asleep at his feet. He struggled to make sense of their situation. It seemed he was the parent now and Father was the child. A wholly unnatural state of affairs.

  Of course he had heard of such things before and was sure Shih would know how to exorcise the old man’s demon. Besides, Heaven must approve of his actions. Why else would the Jade Emperor have returned Father to him? If he demonstrated filial piety a greater reward from Heaven must follow – a Captain’s commission at the very least, maybe even a Commander’s, preferably with the Imperial Guard.

  Guang considered these matters as the river reflected approaching day. The dull black stream turned glossy; ripples formed serpents of fiery sunrise; the water carried a sweet tang of summer plants. On the far shore he noticed a crane stepping gingerly through the shallows, its curved beak poised.

  At daybreak they departed for Chunming, the boatmen poling their ship into the centre of the stream. Guang kept Lord Yun hidden amidst stacks of resin-scented timber. As Five Willow Ford fell behind he saw twenty horsemen gallop into the square. Their leader stood in his stirrups and gazed after the dwindling boat. Did Khan Bayke sense they were aboard? The river turned a corner and Five Willows Ford vanished from sight.

  *

  When Guang was a boy he often heard tales of how Great-grandfather Yun Cai freed his old comrade, the illustrious Second Chancellor P’ei Ti, from gaol in Chunming. Indeed, a stirring romance had been written on the subject. Guang often dreamed of adding honour to the family name, like Yun Cai, and always awoke to a sense of inadequacy. Now Heaven had granted him an opportunity.

  On arrival in Chunming he abandoned his monk’s disguise, trading black robes for the threadbare clothes of an itinerant labourer. No such precautions had been necessary for Father, who already wore filthy rags. Nevertheless, Guang looked too sleek and muscular for a peasant weakened by toil and meagre rations; even with his beard and long hair shaved he possessed an air of distinction. If Chunming had not been awash with refugees from the wars they would have been taken within hours. Yet a destitute old man and his son were a common sight in the city, and Guang made a point of sitting among the hordes of landless peasants.

  Guang’s first objective was a river passage east. The borders of the Empire were tantalisingly close – a few hundred li at most. But no one would carry them without a substantial payment and Guang had observed officials on the waterfront, questioning the most innocent-looking of travellers. He had even seen Khan Bayke riding through the streets with a dozen retainers, staring this way and that like a ravenous hawk.

  That was two days ago. Since then Guang had grown increasingly desperate.

  Notices had appeared on street corners that morning to announce a foul murder in Wei District and describe the wanted men in some detail. As usual, the authorities provided crude pictures of the felons. The hired woodcut-artist had portrayed Guang as a bushy-bearded hero of old and Father as a wise Immortal. Guang detected a hidden act of subversion behind the flattering portraits.

  Certainly the authorities could hardly expect public outrage.

  He overheard excited whispers at one tea stall about the revenge taken upon Khan Bayke by the great poet Yun Cai’s descendents. Rescuing Father had caught the imagination of a people cowed into silence, eager for weakness in their new masters.

  Guang squatted beneath an awning in the East Market and watched for a sign how to proceed. Rain fell with dreary intensity – a fresh wave of the monsoon, likely to last for days.

  Nearly all their cash was gone. He examined Father suspiciously. The old man was following the progress of a gaggle of perfumed and powdered singing girls. They giggled fetchingly beneath tasselled umbrellas as they shuffled round puddles on tiny feet. Father’s were not the only eyes drawn to the girls, but staring so intently might attract notice.

  ‘Father, remember our situation,’ he pleaded.

  The old man puffed ou
t wizened cheeks.

  ‘I will buy the lot of them,’ he declared, scornfully.

  The girls made their way to a small stage covered by garish curtains and awnings. So they were actresses rather than singing girls. It all amounted to the same thing: quails who sell their feathers. Guang fell back to moodily watching the crowd.

  ‘There will be a performance when the rain pauses,’ he observed.

  The actors were gathered round the stage, drinking tea and joking.

  ‘We should find somewhere else to sit when the play starts.

  The Mongols like a play.’

  Indeed, it was strange how they loved the theatre. Guang had heard that when they massacred cities honourable enough to resist them, they spared only artisans, craftsmen and actors.

  The rain continued to fall. Tomorrow he and Lord Yun must risk leaving the city or starve where they crouched. Father stared hungrily at the stage where the girls could be seen moving about. Wearied beyond all reason, Guang fell into a doze.

  When he opened his eyes the sky had cleared. Lord Yun was still watching the temporary theatre, now lit with candles and flickering torches, though the curtain stayed shut. Hundreds of townsfolk had gathered for the show. Guang’s bowels ached and he cursed inwardly; a diet of cheap scraps was affecting him badly. Lord Yun, used to poor rations, seemed quite at ease.

  ‘Father, wait here,’ he hissed. ‘I must relieve myself.’

  When he returned from the nearest back alley he looked round in alarm. All the panic of a parent who has lost his child in a dense throng possessed him, for Father had vanished.

  Guang pushed deep into the crowd. The audience laughed and talked while loud music prepared them for the drama –cymbals clashing, flutes trilling mournfully. He surveyed the excited people. How could they behave as if their land was not occupied? A group of Mongol officers elbowed to the front, accompanied by North Chinese interpreters. Other barbarian warriors watched from the side, perched on their horses for a good view.

  Guang’s forehead was damp with sweat. A few onlookers protested as he shoved past. Then he understood where the old man must be. At the front, the place he had always taken when Lord of Wei. In his confused mind he was still that Lord.

  The curtain opened with a roll of drums and Guang concealed himself behind a tall merchant. He could see Father near the stage, gazing with rapt intensity, his mouth half-open. A dozen people formed a barrier between them.

  An actor in splendid blue silks strode on stage. The crowd gasped and he examined the people haughtily. His face was fierce with red make-up and he wore an extravagant wig and false beard. In his hand was a huge scroll, tightly rolled.

  ‘I am Chang Xi!’ he declared. ‘Sent through all corners of the land on the Emperor’s orders to find a girl, a truly virtuous and beautiful girl, who appeared to my great master in a dream.

  See, here is her picture! Has anyone seen her?’

  Despite himself, Guang bent forward with the eager crowd, as Chang Xi unrolled a huge picture of an elegant maiden. The Mongol officers were craning like entranced children. For an odd moment, Guang glimpsed something shared between conquered and conquerer, that the enemy were men, not immune to softer feelings. He blinked. Shook his head. The thought confused him. A traitor’s thought.

  At the appearance of the picture Father half-rose. One of the Mongols had noticed Lord Yun, and was nudging a companion to point out the ridiculous old fellow.

  Once more Chang Xi declaimed, lamenting the impossibility of his quest in a land where all are debased by corruption and greed, unmindful of their filial duties. How could he find such a girl? He stamped his feet. Glared at the crowd.

  ‘Impossible!’ he cried. Knowing glances were exchanged among the audience. The actor’s hidden message was clear, but not to the Mongols, who roared at the actor’s eloquence.

  The music resumed. Louder, wilder. Drums and clashing chimes. Flutes and strummed pi-pa. Dancers cart-wheeled onto the stage – the very same beauties who had captivated Lord Yun earlier on the street. Chang Xi marched up and down, pretending to assess each girl, before rejecting her as unworthy.

  Thunderous applause allowed Guang to slip closer to his father.

  Lord Yun was on his feet now, staring at the dancers like one possessed by fox-fairies. It seemed he might rush forward, causing a scandal that could only end in arrest. Surely every eye in the crowd must be upon him! Someone might even recognise the former Lord of Wei.

  Guang gently took the old man’s arm. The tumult on stage was beginning to settle. Now was the time to slip away, while attention was focused on the actors. Yet he dared not manhandle Father, who would certainly protest. So he stood beside him and awaited the worst.

  Yet a strange thing happened. As Chang Xi addressed the crowd once more, bewailing his failure to find a virtuous maiden, his glance fell upon Guang and the painted man blinked in surprise. The actor’s hesitation was momentary, but the fugitive’s stomach tightened. Had they been recognised?

  Perhaps the posters were more accurate than he supposed. The actor hurried into the wings.

  A beautiful lady entered the stage. Her silks and make-up were perfect. The Mongol officers exchanged sly remarks, no doubt recollecting their own hairy women and itchy, yak-skin couches.

  ‘I am Shu Qian,’ she announced, in a shrill, nasal voice. ‘My father is so poor he has arranged an auction of my virtue. . .’

  A commotion at the edge of the crowd made Guang turn.

  Then he knew they were truly lost.

  Khan Bayke and his retinue were pushing their horses straight into the ranks of people, examining faces in the crowd.

  In a moment they would cry out in recognition, riding down any who got in their way.

  Someone was tugging at his arm. He turned to find a fat lady at his side. Closer inspection revealed a eunuch dressed in women’s clothes.

  ‘Quick!’ he hissed. ‘Follow me.’

  The crowd was applauding again as the beautiful Shu Qian began to sing. Guang enveloped his Father in strong arms and carried him after the fat he-woman, who hustled them to the side of the stage, out of sight. Yet as Guang placed his hand over Lord Yun’s mouth, the old man’s jaws closed tight and Guang cried out in pain. When, in the safety of an alleyway crowded with actors waiting to go on stage, he pried open Lord Yun’s clamped jaws, a bloody half-circle of tooth marks dis figured his hand, scars he would carry to his grave.

  *

  They were led to a room at the rear of a cheap tavern. The eunuch bowed very low.

  ‘Wait here,’ he said, examining the two fugitives curiously.

  ‘My master will join you as soon as the performance ends.’

  Before Guang could demand more information the man had gone. Father squatted on the floor, just as he had in Whale Rock Monastery, alternately weeping and staring into space.

  Sometimes he muttered incoherent words. Guang did not wish to know what haunted so troubled a mind. Lord Yun’s lack of dignity revolted him. His instinct was to flee into the streets of Chunming but he held back. After all, the actors could have betrayed them while they stood in the crowd.

  Guang furiously twisted the stubborn spear blade from the end of his bamboo pole. Taking a small pot from his bag he smeared thick black paste on the sharp tip. Whatever happened tonight, he would not meet the Infernal Judges alone. Father must not fall into Bayke’s hands. If the need arose, he would protect the old man from further shame – forever.

  An hour later there was a gentle tap on the door. Guang stepped to one side of the entrance, balancing on the balls of his feet, spear ready to stab.

  ‘Enter!’ he called.

  The actor playing the role of Chang Xi stepped inside, looking round eagerly. When he noticed the poisoned spear point hovering beside his throat he went very still and licked his lips.

  ‘Close the door, my friend,’ said Guang. ‘But softly.’

  ‘I recognised you, sir,’ said the actor with a gulp. Thick make-up cake
d his plump young face. Guang moved the spear tip a fraction closer to the actor’s fluttering windpipe.

  ‘Let me introduce myself,’ gasped the man.

  ‘Please do,’ said Guang.

  A fanciful tale followed, throughout which the spear did not waver. The actor was a good talker. He claimed to be in the occupied lands on a delicate mission and that his real name was Chen Song.

  ‘I am a scholar,’ he said. ‘But that is not why I helped you.’

  Still Guang kept silent. Chen Song spoke in an eager rush:

  ‘Many have heard the tale of how you rescued Lord Yun! And killed a dozen of Khan Bayke’s men! Such filial piety! When I see Lord Yun’s – how can I put it – unfortunate condition, I honour you all the more! Of course, I felt obliged to help. You see, we have met before, though you do not recognise me.’

  ‘When was that?’ demanded Guang.

  Yet as he examined the fellow’s face in the soft lamplight, there was certainly a likeness to one he had known.

  ‘Do you not remember my brother, Chen Su, your comrade at the Western Military Academy, who you stood beside at the Battle of Lu Shan? He perished in the last campaign, before the Traitor’s Peace. I saw you together when I was just a boy.

  My brother often told me how you saved his life.’

  ‘He would have done the same for me,’ said Guang.

  Then he lowered his weapon and settled heavily in a chair.

  He was exhausted beyond further precaution.

  ‘Father has not eaten for a whole day,’ he said. ‘And neither have I.’

  Chen Song took the hint at once, ordering a banquet of five grains, five meats, and five wets to honour the fugitives. It seemed he could not do enough for them.

  *

  Two days passed in the small room. Chen Song visited briefly but he was busy with performances all round the city, including the Mongol governor’s residence.