Breaking Bamboo Read online

  Han River, Central China. Early autumn, 1266.

  Guang felt stale, inaction made him restless. Being a passenger did not suit him at all.

  After Wuhan, the actors’ boat sailed east until it joined the great Han River, gateway to the Empire’s rich heartland. There had been no pursuit, and part of him would have welcomed one to make the dull hours sat in the stern pass more quickly.

  Yet the trip was not entirely lacking in satisfaction.

  Once safely within the Empire, Chen Song announced Guang’s true position as heroic saviour of Lord Yun and single-handed slayer of a dozen Mongols. After that he was treated with awe by the troupe of actors. The prettiest of the dancers even felt obliged to share her favours. But as Guang returned from a tryst with her in the bushes when their boat paused to gather firewood, he caught Father glaring at him with such strange intensity that he avoided the old man’s eye all that day.

  On the Han they made swift progress. It was a merry party, despite the risk of pirates. The boatmen, unaccustomed to so much cash, spent it freely on wine. Only Chen Song stayed sober. Donning his official uniform, he composed a long memorandum describing the Mongol deployments which he read to Guang, who listened attentively. By now he had gained stewardship of a fair portion of the scholar’s ready money in the form of an honourable loan. At a tailor’s shop in a waterside town Lord Yun insisted on purchasing a suit of gaudy silks that emptied Guang’s purse, while his son chose plain but respectable clothes for himself.

  A few days before they reached the Twin Cities, the actors’ boat was forced to find a mooring for the river ahead was full.

  A fleet of paddle-boats and oar-propelled war junks laboured in formation up the rain-quickened Han, bound for the borders. There were swift destroyers and huge, many-storied floating castles, accompanied by darting dragon boats.

  Guang watched silently as ships laden with crossbowmen and warriors passed slowly, their fine flags drooping in the humid air. Officers in full armour strode the painted decks and the fleet advanced to a steady drumbeat. Its potential filled Guang’s imagination. He paced up and down the shore until the fleet passed.

  ‘A powerful force,’ remarked Chen Song.

  ‘I should be with them!’ cried Guang. ‘I could direct our new weapons so the enemy fled back to their miserable steppes!’

  Chen Song nodded.

  ‘Yesterday I consulted the Book of Changes concerning your future,’ he said. ‘I saw fire. Rest assured your time will come.’

  Later they heard rumours that a great land army had marched west from the Twin Cities of Nancheng and Fouzhou.

  Their spirit was said to be overwhelming, their commanders uncommonly resolute. Guang took the news badly. He returned to the boat and found Lord Yun drunk before an audience of actors, who had also been drinking heavily. The old man, shaking as he spoke, was describing how he cut his way out of Whale Rock Monastery.

  ‘The first one I chopped like this!’

  Lord Yun slashed at the air and the actors cheered.

  ‘The second fell like this!’

  The actresses squealed behind their fans.

  ‘The third was a tougher fellow, oh yes, but I knew what was good for him, so I took my sword. . .’

  One of the actors leapt up and chopped at the air until his arms were tangled in a knot. His audience clapped appreciatively. Father looked from face to face, his mouth trembling.

  Gradually they became aware Guang was staring at them.

  The actor who had mocked Lord Yun scratched his arms awkwardly, ashamed and afraid. Guang strode forward. For a moment he paused, his hand raised, then he slapped the actor so hard across the face that he fell overboard with a splash.

  Guang glared at the others while the boatmen fished out the drowning man.

  ‘Never annoy Lord Yun again,’ he said, quietly. ‘You are common filth. He is noble.’

  He took Father’s arm and deposited him next to Chen Song.

  Tears clouded his eyes. The old man was muttering wildly again and Guang cringed inwardly as he caught the word ‘fish-es’.

  ‘Lord Yun will be my constant companion for the rest of the journey,’ declared Chen Song. ‘It would be the greatest honour for me. I beg you to allow it.’

  Guang wondered at this kind friend who had saved him a dozen times. He longed for a chance to repay the debt. At the cost of his own life, if need be.

  A few days later they glimpsed the Twin Cities.

  *

  Guang’s acquaintance with Fouzhou and Nancheng stemmed from failure.

  After his graduation from the Western Military Academy he had several commissions in the Army of the Left Hand, gaining a reputation as a ruthless and efficient Captain of Artillery. On one occasion his men set fire to a dozen pirate ships, drowning all aboard, including their families. Yet promotion evaded him.

  He was too blunt, too often right when superiors were wrong, traits certain to provoke disfavour. So he found himself cast loose in Nancheng at the start of winter, petitioning for a new commission alongside dozens of other officers, many from influential families.

  A time he did not care to recollect. . .

  Wind whipped freezing dust through the streets and the wooden frames of houses creaked with frost. Soon his stock of cash had run low, for he refused to demean himself by eating like a petty cobbler or peasant.

  Then, one afternoon, as he walked down Bright Hoop Street, wrapped against the cold in his quilted jacket, Guang had seen his own face pushing towards him through the crowd. At first he wondered if hunger and cold had numbed his brain. Or whether fox-fairies had cast a spell on him. The man was his double! He wore a doctor’s sober robes and a black, ear-flapped hat. He carried a case of needles. Guang refused to believe his eyes.

  There are moments in all men’s lives when destiny wraps itself round a spot of time. At first he doubted the most obvious conclusion, even the rapid beat of his heart. Who was this stranger? Yet no stranger could mirror one’s own face or body so exactly. Ah, he heard himself murmuring, the truth slowly gathering, ah, as though his voice belonged to someone else, and he speculated how tall and handsome a small boy could grow, so that a tiny lost face might shine with adult intensity. More than that, the face shone with sentiments Guang had felt too little in his harsh life, so very little during fight after bloody fight. The face pushing towards him was marked out by habits of sympathy and kindness. So that Guang felt this strange, shared face somehow reproached him in ways he could not explain.

  And, of course, it had been Shih, the twin he had not seen since they were eight years old! Confronted by each other they had stared, afraid to glance away, afraid the lost brother they had imagined through long lonely years would suddenly vanish. At last, tentatively, Shih raised his arms and stepped forward. Guang had flinched at first, unused to affection. His shoulders had tensed. For a moment they swayed towards each other, then wept at exactly the same time, and embraced.

  A crowd soon gathered, as it will at the slightest excuse, exclaiming and pointing. ‘They are Shen and Men!’ cried a pious old man. ‘They will guard against evil spirits! It is an omen! Any who witnesses their meeting will be blessed with good luck!’ Afterwards, this man insisted on sending statues of Shen and Men to Apricot Corner Court; one a red-faced god, the other ghostly white. They were set up in the gatehouse with much ceremony, each holding a long mace and dressed in paper armour.

  Naturally Guang had gone to live with Shih. For both it was a time of happy discovery. They talked every evening, finding much in common – and many differences of character. Yet their conversation always returned to the occupation of Three-Step-House and the death of Mother and Father. For word had reached Guang that their parents perished in the fighting against the Mongol invaders.

  All winter he had remained as his brother’s guest, developing a deep respect for his plain but practical Sister-in-law, Cao.

  Finally the arrival of spring – and too much home-brewed wine – provoked
his oath to deliver a letter to the ancestral tomb.

  *

  For all these reasons, Guang’s heart leapt as the Twin Cities rose on the horizon.

  ‘I would die a hundred deaths for this place,’ he informed Chen Song. ‘Nancheng delivered a lost brother and now Father to me. Without Nancheng I would have no family!’

  As their boat drew parallel to the city walls and watch towers, the scholar caught his enthusiasm. ‘Destiny worked through you and your brother,’ he said. ‘That is quite clear. Twin cities and twin brothers. The authorities must take notice!’

  Their craft approached the Floating Bridge linking Fouzhou to Nancheng, one of the Empire’s wonders. This pontoon bridge, three li long, was wide enough in places for two carriages to pass. Wooden palisades and elevated platforms for archers protected it from waterborne attack. A man-made island had been laboriously constructed in the middle of the river. On it stood a tall brick and stone fort. Ships travelling up and downstream were obliged to pass through wooden swing bridges and channels of sharpened stakes. By this feat of engineering, the enemy were denied access to the heartlands of the Empire.

  They joined a queue of laden river craft until the walls of Nancheng towered above them. Guang stood in the prow as they paddled to the Water Gate of Morning Radiance. Its huge bronze-bound doors stood open. Beyond lay a dark tunnel lined with downward pointing rams to trap unwelcome boats.

  Then they were through, emerging onto one of the many canals latticing Nancheng. The boat entered a large water basin surrounded by warehouses and hostelries. Guang heard a bellow from the shore. A man in an officer’s uniform trotted along the quayside, keeping pace with their gliding boat.

  ‘Yun Guang! Is it really you?’

  ‘Have you gone blind, my friend?’ Guang shouted back, joyfully. ‘Or are you too drunk to recognise me?’

  ‘Did you deliver the letter?’ asked the soldier.

  ‘Better than that, I have my father in this boat, rescued from the Mongols.’

  They docked, the boatmen casting out and mooring ropes.

  As Guang excitedly told his story a crowd formed. Labourers and porters craned to hear his words. Guang was relieved that Father stayed quiet. Soon the crowd comprised many dozens.

  He could sense the rumour of his story swelling up and down the quayside.

  Guang climbed stiffly ashore, then helped Lord Yun onto dry land. Triumph made him light-headed.

  ‘Father,’ he said. ‘I will take you to a place where you will be treated with great honour.’

  So many were listening that Guang wondered if his words were intended for the old man or the crowd.

  ‘Follow me, Father.’

  They proceeded down the street, stepping aside for handcarts and mule-wagons. Many of the people on the quayside followed, some out of curiosity, but most because the snatching of a Family Head from the barbarians excited their ideals.

  A mere li from the Water Basin, they arrived at Shih’s shop.

  Throughout their long journey Guang had pretended that Lord Yun would join his own household. Now he could pretend no longer. Yet he was afraid to tell the truth in case Father, who had maintained a dignified face so far, disgraced them all. The old man tugged his son’s sleeve like a child.

  ‘Can this be the fine house you spoke about?’ he asked, gazing doubtfully at the shop and common courtyard it fronted.

  Guang resorted to another lie. Or half-truth.

  ‘Step inside this doctor’s shop, Father,’ he whispered. ‘And you shall receive medicine to make all your parts strong again.

  Perhaps we shall find some fishes. . . This way, Father.’

  He bundled the old man into the shop, motioning Chen Song to follow, and slammed the door behind them.

  The crowd murmured as it waited outside. Yet Guang was naïve to think his connection with Shih was not well-known.

  The twin brothers had caught many people’s eye during the winter they lived together, as all exceptional things do.

  *

  The travellers found themselves in a wide room lined with clay jars. The mingled scent of a hundred herbs was sweet and acrid, an intoxicating aroma, suggestive of renewal. A fat youth sat beside the counter. His expression passed from wonder to delight.

  ‘Captain Guang!’ cried the apprentice. ‘You’re alive! I must tell Master.’

  Before he could be stopped, Chung disappeared into a back room. Guang said awkwardly: ‘Father, someone you least expect will walk through that door in a moment.’ He cleared his throat nervously. ‘It is your Second Son, Shih.’

  At first the old man seemed not to understand.

  ‘Shih? How is that possible?’ he said. ‘I sent him away. Far, far away. Besides, he is dead. Shih is a paper puppet. He does not exist.’

  ‘Father,’ said Guang. ‘I beg you, stay calm! For all our sakes, but most of all your own.’

  ‘I will go straight to your house,’ declared the old man. ‘I do not wish to see a doctor or a paper puppet.’

  ‘Father,’ cried Guang. ‘I must confess a great fault. I lied to you so you would not feel distressed. It is Shih you must live with, not I. You see, I have no means to provide for you.’

  This confession wrenched his pride. He would rather Chen Song had not heard it. Even the scholar, tolerant and wise, looked away. Now Father was trembling.

  ‘I cannot live here,’ he protested, stepping towards the door.

  Guang blocked the way.

  ‘Why is the door locked?’ demanded the old man, suddenly afraid. ‘Shih is not my son! I cannot share a prison with another ghost! Your mother is bad enough with her nagging and reproaches!’

  Chen Song cleared his throat.

  ‘Lord Yun,’ he intervened. ‘This is no prison. Your second son appears to be a physician, no doubt honoured by his patients.’

  Guang was grateful for this help.

  ‘Father, you will be safe here. . .’

  He fell silent. Shih stood in the doorway. For a long moment he did not move, staring at Lord Yun in disbelief. A look of horror crossed Shih’s kindly face. He blinked at the floor, then glanced at Guang accusingly.

  The old man seemed to have trouble looking at his discarded Second Son. At last he understood the significance of Shih’s stained doctor’s robes and, for a moment, seemed puzzled.

  Then Lord Yun’s lips twitched with contempt.

  ‘A doctor!’ he said. ‘You will not deceive me so easily! No son of Lord Yun could be so humble! A little doctor in his little shop! Does Khan Bayke appoint a shadow to be my gaoler?

  Guang, tell me you did not rescue me for this!’

  Shih hesitated then lowered himself to his knees, his face dark with emotion.

  ‘Father,’ he said, dully. ‘We believed you were dead. Where is Mother?’

  The old man’s grave composure cracked.

  ‘Washed away!’ he cried, addressing Guang and entirely ignoring the existence of Shih. ‘Washed away by the stream! I am only here because of the fishes’ spells! They are powerful, even if they are demons and tempt me to hell as the Abbot Jian says.’

  Confusion crossed Shih’s face, replaced by watchfulness.

  ‘Tell me about the demon-fishes, Father,’ he said, softly. ‘Do they speak to you?’

  But the old man was muttering to himself, laughing at some secret thought. Shih listened attentively, fingering an amulet on his belt. He turned to Guang. Their eyes met, holding each other’s gaze. Though time and trial had altered the twin brothers in subtle ways, their brown eyes remained peculiarly alike. Something of the sorrow and fear and pain Guang had endured in rescuing Lord Yun passed between them, and Shih nodded, as though silently acknowledging these sacrifices. But when his gentle, intense gaze returned to Lord Yun, darker passions might be read in his face.

  ‘I see how things stand,’ he said. ‘I will take Honoured Father somewhere he may rest. A chamber must be prepared. Wait here for me, Guang, there are many things I need to know.’
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  He walked over to his unexpected guest, who shrank back in alarm.

  ‘Come with me, Father,’ he said, briskly. Then Shih appeared to support Lord Yun while firmly directing his steps so that Guang marvelled at how well he managed the old man. For the first time he glimpsed the strength of will within his brother, and thought of bamboo.

  ‘We have a fine room for you, Father,’ said Shih. ‘You must be hungry after your long journey. . .’

  His reassuring voice faded down the corridor until a door closed. Chen Song stirred uneasily.

  ‘A most filial scene,’ he said, awkwardly. ‘I must leave you now and report to the authorities.’

  A great reluctance to stay in Shih’s shop made Guang step after him.

  ‘Chung,’ he said, addressing the apprentice. ‘Tell Dr Shih I am called away on urgent business of state. Tell him. . . I will return soon to explain all that has happened. Now I must accompany my friend to Peacock Hill.’

  Chen Song looked puzzled.

  ‘Should you not tell your brother yourself?’ he asked.

  Guang shook his head doggedly and led Chen Song to the door.

  ‘Shih will understand Father’s malady better than I,’ he said.

  ‘There is nothing more I can do.’

  As they emerged onto the street, the waiting crowd cheered and clapped. Guang strode towards Peacock Hill and with each step an unbearable burden in his heart grew lighter.

  *

  Their destination was a fashionable teahouse at the foot of the former Palace complex. Onlookers turned to watch the two travellers and the excited crowd accompanying them. As the idle naturally will, many joined the throng to share any gossip going. Idlers were a common enough sight. Year by year more peasants drifted into the Twin Cities, harassed by their landlords’ exorbitant rents and taxes benefiting only the Son of Heaven’s extravagant court.

  ‘It is as I predicted,’ Chen Song said, happily. ‘Word of your exploits spreads like a filial fire! We must use this to your advantage. But Guang, you seem troubled.’