Taming Poison Dragons (11 page)

‘Come Father,’ he says. ‘Let us not stand on ceremony.

My men are hungry and I am eager to sit.’

Even the officers seem embarrassed by his rudeness. I understand his intention. He wishes to establish himself as host, not guest. I counter by pretending not to hear, and address the officers.

‘You will notice, as gentlemen of distinction, the unusual shape of the rocks on the opposite hillside. They have often been admired by visitors.’

They peer obediently across the valley.

‘Very unusual,’ says one, older than the rest, with a sad, lined face. ‘Very interesting.’

Youngest Son’s eyes narrow.

‘Please enter!’ I cry. ‘All are welcome.’

We kneel before the tables in our old-fashioned country way and the banquet begins. Youngest Son looks around, touched by predictable emotions. He has dined in this room a thousand times, knows its shadows and shapes, the feel of the mat beneath his knees. This was the last room he stayed in, on the night I dismissed him. Only fools deny the circular swirl of life. Perhaps he remembers his mother’s presence here.

For the first few courses, little conversation. This suits me. When they are drunk I shall raise the village’s safety, paying particular attention to the welfare of virgins.

Servants bring in bowl after bowl on lacquer trays. Snails broiled in vinegar, little frog and noodle soup, then roasted quail and partridge, dry dishes followed by wet, each washed down by cups of wine. The officers are on their best behaviour, and even Youngest Son is restrained.

It is only after the fifteenth dish that trouble begins.

Appropriately, considering my guests, it is peppery pork.

The servants light the lanterns, at once attracting a single, pale moth. Its fluttering wings change the atmosphere in the room. Youngest Son suddenly lifts his cup and cries out: ‘To the health of His Highness, General An-Shu!’

His officers roar approval. I raise my cup thoughtfully, meeting the older officer’s watchful eyes. Clearly something is expected of me, a declaration of loyalty, perhaps.

‘The General’s boldness will pass into legend!’ I call out.

They murmur approvingly.

‘He dares where other men only dream,’ I add.

Thumping of tables, so the dishes vibrate.

‘We hear little news in our poor valley,’ I say. ‘Youngest Son, be so kind as to share your deeds! We have much to learn.’

Youngest Son laughs harshly. He is drunker than the wine I have served warrants. Clearly he started before he got here.

‘Where do I begin? Our glorious regiment (more thumping of tables) has earned its name of Winged Tigers!

At Chu Ford we attacked across the water and drove back a whole battalion of our enemies. Do you see this scar, Father? The man who gave it to me floated away face down!’

His officers cheer. Beside me, Eldest Son is decidedly uncomfortable.

‘I trust the wound causes no discomfort?’ I ask.

‘None at all! And when His Highness made a tactical retreat to Lu Pass, my company beat off three times its number.’

‘So all goes well,’ I say.

‘Exceedingly! Even now we are gathering a force to march south all the way to the Dragon Throne itself.

Many titles will be granted on that splendid day.’

He says this with the utmost significance. Is he referring to my own title?

‘I am pleased Youngest Son is happy.’

‘How could I be otherwise! Lieutenant Mah-Fu, what did you make of the Pretender’s forces?’

The officer, barely more than a boy, frowns with concentration.

‘Well, I’ll answer for you,’ continues Youngest Son. ‘They lack the will to fight. That gives us a decisive advantage.’

Another officer breaks in, the one with a habitual sneer.

‘Sir, you hit the target exactly! They have no stomach for their cause.’

Youngest Son frowns to be interrupted.

‘Precisely. That’s what I said. More wine! The servants have grown slow since I was away.’

I sigh, as if to concede we are simple folk.

‘Glorious times!’ he toasts. ‘Already ambassadors have arrived in Chunming from one of the Western tribes, offering a host of mounted archers.’

‘Barbarians are offering to serve the General?’ I ask, surprised.

‘Of course! His Highness is busy from dawn until dusk with homage. Who would have thought it in such a dull town as Chunming, eh?’

Who indeed? The idea is outlandish.

‘A new dynasty is forming,’ declares Youngest Son, tipsily. ‘Mark my words!’

I grow pale to hear such treason uttered in my own house, and rage inwardly at the danger in which he places us. Yet I must be calm.

‘Clearly great events,’ I say. ‘Here we think only of the harvest. And the early crop has been disappointing.’

‘Never mind that, Father,’ chides Youngest Son.

Such rudeness and disrespect to a parent is a kind of treason in itself. If his mother could hear it, she would weep with shame. He turns fiercely to Eldest Son. This is the moment I have dreaded.

‘Brother! Why don’t you join us? With my influence, an honourable position could be found for you. Look at the kind of men you’d be serving alongside! Doesn’t that make you long for honour?’

His officers exclaim appreciatively. The room falls silent. Every eye is on Eldest Son. He seems troubled, spreads his hands helplessly.

‘Someone must ensure the peasants tend the fields,’ he says. ‘Otherwise, how will the General’s troops be fed?’

The youngest officer titters, yet I could hug Eldest Son for so obtuse a reply. Youngest Son seems nonplussed.

‘True, true, but there’s no glory in it.’

‘Tell me again how you came by your scar,’ I say. ‘That is what we really want to know.’

For the next few minutes Youngest Son explains, blow by blow, and the crisis passes. More wine is poured.

Evidently they have decided to make it a point of honour to get dead drunk. To my relief, the conversation moves away from us. Eldest Son and I are ignored. They talk excitedly about the march to the capital, how one good battle should settle the matter. More moths gather on the lanterns, their wings slowly opening and closing.

Wudi appears in the doorway like a ghost. I meet his eye and excuse myself.

Outside, we find a dark corner beneath the eaves.

‘I have news,’ he says, quietly.

‘Be discreet,’ I warn.

‘The cavalrymen got your message.’

We glance involuntarily at the hillside above Three-Step-House. Clouds are passing, driven across the night sky. It will be windy tomorrow.

‘Did your son speak to the commander?’

‘No, I went myself.’

‘What impression did you gain of him?’

Wudi laughs softly.

‘He’s desperate enough. He said he wants to speak to you.’

‘Me?’

‘Yes, Lord. He said to tell you.’

I try to understand, but cannot. My only hope is that it somehow stems from P’ei Ti.

‘So the Imperial cavalry are well hidden?’

‘I showed them to the caves behind the waterfall. The rest is up to them. I didn’t want to hang around.’

‘You are brave, Wudi,’ I say.

‘Or stupid,’ he says.

‘Go to bed now, old friend. Sleep here. It is not safe for you to go down to the village tonight. The soldiers might wonder why you’re awake so late.’

He hesitates.

‘I’m afraid,’ he says. ‘If any of this comes out. . .’

I need no reminding. After all, Wei Village has burned once before. Because of my actions, it might burn again.

‘Tomorrow will decide that,’ I say. ‘Rest now.’

I relieve myself against a plum tree and take my place once more in the Middle House. The eldest of the officers, Lieutenant Lo, watches me closely. Does he suspect something?

‘Lord Yun Cai,’ he says, quietly. ‘My wife has a scroll of your poems which her mother gave her. She likes to read them to me when I return home on leave.’

I cannot help flushing. It is a long time since I heard confirmation that my fame still lives.

‘I am honoured,’ I say. ‘Your wife is an unusual woman to read so well.’

‘She is of good family,’ he says, proudly.

I sense a story behind his words, probably a sad one, given his current circumstances. I glance at Youngest Son, who is guffawing at the sly-faced officer’s stories.

‘Do you have a favourite poem of mine?’ I ask.

Lieutenant Lo tugs at his lips. Despite the awkwardness of our mutual positions, I’m warming to him.

‘No, all are very fine, as far as I can tell. There’s one I like. . . how does it go? No, I have forgotten. I’ll ask my wife when we next meet.’

His tone suggests the event seems distant.

‘Send word to me,’ I say. ‘And I’ll write it out for you.

Then you can give it to her.’

He smiles sadly.

‘I regret that is not likely. . . I remember now! The poem is about waiting by a lake. That’s it.’

‘Ah,’ I say.

Then I close my eyes and slowly recite, characters forming neat columns across my inner vision:
The lake ripples as four winds will.

Fish rise, mouths gape like coins.

West Lake might as well be an ocean.

Heart’s desire waits for shores to kiss,
No balance until they touch.

He looks hard at me, unexpectedly blinks back a tear.

‘She’s a soft-hearted wench,’ he says, softly.

I realise the room is silent. When I look up, I’m met by their eyes, baffled or amused. In Youngest Son’s case, confused. I sense the reproach his father’s poem provokes. A reminder that, however great his hope, he ended up a mere soldier.

Eldest Son coughs. ‘I like that one, Father,’ he says.

I have no doubt he is thinking of Daughter-in-law.

That’s how it is with poems. Every man finds his own meaning, sometimes no meaning at all. They know nothing of the woman to whom it was addressed, her beauty, my restless longing when I was young.

A sergeant wearing full armour appears in the doorway, and enters with a deep bow. He seems out of breath, and anxious.

‘The men are getting rowdy, sir,’ he says, after receiving permission to speak. ‘Some say that now the officers are away, they may have a little fun, sir.’

*

Youngest Son dismisses the news with a casual wave.

‘My men are disciplined. They know better than to anger me.’

The sergeant exchanges a meaningful look with Lieutenant Lo, who frowns.

‘Youngest Son!’ I say, hurriedly. ‘Surely, it would be wise to see if the good sergeant exaggerates? This brings me to another question. Perhaps an edict written by yourself, assuring the villagers will not be molested. . .’

‘Father!’

Youngest Son lowers his cup to the table with a loud clatter. Wine spills to form a small puddle. The room is silent with shock.

‘Father, there shall be no such edict! These are military matters!’

Lieutenant Lo clears his throat. I sense his embarrassment.

‘Let me go down there, sir!’ he says. ‘Just in case.’

Youngest Son glares at him; snorts scornfully.

‘We shall all go. It is late,’ he says. ‘Tomorrow is an important day. We have stayed here long enough.’

His officers rise at once, bowing gratefully for my hospitality. As distant shouts rise from Wei Village, they hurry into the night. Youngest Son’s cheeks are flushed, never a healthy sign with him. Especially now, for he holds a sword above our heads.

I don’t try to sleep. The banquet with Youngest Son has given me indigestion, more of the mind than body. One question troubles me above all others. Why did he not ask about the Imperial cavalry? I had prepared a dozen subtle evasions. It makes no sense. Who better to ask than the Lord, if you are seeking fugitives in his domain? Our valley winds round the lower slopes of two mountains and a dozen small valleys flow into Wei like tributaries.

Without local guidance, even a force two hundred strong could spend weeks of fruitless searching.

I must assume Youngest Son did not ask for a reason.

Perhaps he already suspects us. Maybe he is so drunk on his own abilities that requesting help affronts his dignity.

Then again, he may already have the information he requires. Perhaps others in the village have betrayed the cavalrymen’s whereabouts. Certainly, I believe he knows more about the intentions of the Imperial troops than I do, and always the doubt nags – are they connected to P’ei Ti? One could speculate until dawn.

There is a further possibility, one I desire to be true.

Youngest Son does not wish to involve us, in case collective punishment against the village becomes necessary.

However deep his devotion to General An-Shu, loyalty to one’s family and ancestors must surely take precedence.

I look at my official uniform in the lantern light.

Youngest Son has power now. Where has the eager boy I loved gone? How did his excited, high-pitched voice, like a flute, a sweet flute, grow harsh? He has become strange and daunting. Am I somehow to blame? And he is so young to be a captain. His officers evidently respect and fear him. I know the world well enough to understand he must have earned both emotions, probably in cruel ways.

But even as a child he always led the other children. No surprise when a bough sprouts leaves.

As for his attitude to me – flashes of bitterness, lightning across a distant horizon. Yet I pity my lost boy.

His mother would lament to see the danger he is in. He has planted every last grain of his future in General An-Shu’s field, and should it wither, he will reap a rebel’s end.

A desperate man is ruthless. I must not allow myself to be blinded by sentiment. Wei Village will only be safe when he and his wolves march away. I must be balanced, too, for there are decent men among them. The older officer, Lieutenant Lo, might let slip information Youngest Son would rather I did not know.

Finally, a restless doze. When I awake the lantern has burned down. My room half-lit by dawn, Eldest Son beside my bed.

‘Father!’ he whispers. ‘Wake up! Things happen in the village.’

I pull the coverlet up to my chin. It is cool. I can hear wind outside.

‘What things?’

‘The soldiers gather dozens of peasants. They’re all in the village square.’