Breaking Bamboo (11 page)

‘I will collect you tomorrow and take you home. As for the apprentice, inform him he must leave the house at dawn, when I will settle any outstanding wages.’

After he had left, weighed down by the lacquer box, Cao rushed to Shih and told him what Uncle had decided. He paced the room angrily.

‘I am not distressed for myself,’ he said. ‘Only for you. I cannot believe your father seriously intended you to marry this man. There is a stench of greasy money behind all this. Yet it is a crime to oppose a father’s will.’

Cao wrung her hands.

‘I do not wish to become Fifth Cousin Wen’s wife!’ she cried.

‘I have another love. One I can never forget.’

Shih stopped pacing and met her eyes. They had been little more than children. It would be a year before Shih reached the age of capping into manhood in his twentieth year.

‘There may be another way,’ he said, cautiously. ‘A less than honourable way, perhaps. If we have the courage.’

‘When I am with you I have the courage for anything,’ she said.

She had meant it with all her hope and heart, unaware how cruel people can be, and how kind when least expected. Since that day, twelve years had passed. . .

*

Madam Cao walked across Nancheng to the East Market, where she was curious to read the proclamation mentioned by Old Hsu. Such notices were customarily hung on the Gate of Fragrant Increase and she joined a small crowd round the strip of paper. When her turn came, a retired clerk politely offered to read it to her.

‘I can read, sir!’ she said with more passion than she had intended. ‘Just because I am a woman does not mean I must be a fool.’

Cao flushed with embarrassment at her rudeness. She did not know what had come over her. Afraid of causing a scandal, she added in a wheedling voice: ‘But if you would help me with the more difficult characters, sir, I would be very grateful.’

The man chuckled. Cao noticed with surprise that he had taken no offence.

‘What, young lady? Speak a little louder.’

The proclamation gave advanced warning of civic restrictions, should the enemy approach the city. Everything was expressed in vague terms, yet Cao could not avoid a pang of fear. She had heard rumours that those towns which fell to the Mongols perished utterly. Many people preferred to kill their entire family than suffer captivity, or worse. Surely it was impossible the enemy could reach as far as Nancheng. The Son of Heaven’s armies would scatter them long before that. Cao reassured herself she was glad to have read the notice; it would provide something to tell Shih over dinner.

As she bought peppers and dried wood-ear, lily flowers and onions, to make pour-fish sauce – one of her husband’s favourite dishes – unwelcome thoughts arose. Why did her guest not help with the cooking? Perhaps she did not know how, having grown used to meals served at her whim. Although Shih’s fees from patients had increased since curing the Pacification Commissioner’s son, to the extent that he talked about hiring a maid, Cao still prepared all their meals.

Thankfully, Shih did not object to Lu Ying eating alone in her room, though it was hardly friendly.

That made Cao wonder, too. She had noticed he grew awkward whenever Honoured Guest emerged to ask for something. He glanced away, as though trying to dismiss Lu Ying from his mind. While Cao approved of such delicacy, she distrusted what lay beneath it.

‘A noble fish!’ declared the merchant. ‘A prince of trout! A dish fit for the Pacification Commissioner’s own table!’

Cao did not haggle over the price. She wished to get home soon and see what was going on in her absence.

‘Now I will explain how the cities of Nancheng and Fouzhou are defended. Water subjugates fire: in this way the wide moats and canals surrounding the Twin Cities drown the burning will of besiegers. Earth subjugates water: thus the high walls of pounded earth lined with stone channel water in ways beneficial to the Son of Heaven’s subjects. One might say the defence of Nancheng and Fouzhou relies upon the five elements. . .’

From
Dream Pool Essays
by Shen Kua 

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?’