Taming Poison Dragons (12 page)

It takes little time to don my uniform. We hurry silently down the hill to the village.

There, the scene does not gratify. Youngest Son lolling in Father’s ebony chair, surrounded by his officers, while one of his men is beaten for some breach of discipline. I assume it stems from last night’s disturbance, and Wudi whispers in my ear that one of the village girls has vanished. Every time the bamboo cane strikes the soldier’s naked genitals, he lets out a thin scream. The infantry stand on parade, weapons shouldered, watching expressionlessly. What troubles me is the sight of twenty or so villagers on their knees, in a huddle beside the well.

Youngest Son is evidently displeased to see us. No doubt that is why he forgets to rise, so I must stand before him, like an underling. A woman wails in one of the houses round the village square.

‘Father,’ he says, rising reluctantly. ‘You should be resting. As I said last night, these are military affairs.’

I nod. Dust blows fitfully around the square. I feel invisible fingers tug my clothes.

‘Your affairs are pressing,’ I say. ‘I merely wondered if some of the villagers have offended your authority. That would bring shame on us all.’

He follows my glance to the wretched group by the well.

‘No, Father. Not yet. That depends on whether they co-operate.’

‘I’m sure they will,’ I say, smoothly.

‘Let us see.’

He sits down in my chair and motions to Lieutenant Lo.

‘Have those men brought before us.’

A few soldiers chivvy the peasants to their feet with halberd butts. They are pale with fear. The soldiers thrust them before Youngest Son. Several glance at me with beseeching eyes. Now I must prove a father to my people.

My mouth tightens, yet I wait.

‘Peasants,’ drawls Youngest Son. ‘All of you know the valley well, so don’t pretend otherwise.’

They abase themselves, twice as respectfully as they do for me.

‘You will lead my men to where the rebels are hiding,’

he says. ‘The first of you to provide useful information will avoid punishment.’

Dust blows around their foreheads, which they keep firmly pressed against the earth. None rise. At last, Yuan, the innkeeper, raises his head a little, and fearfully points up the valley.

‘They rode through two days ago, Sir,’ he says, his voice quavering.

I have to respect the man’s courage.

‘That I already know!’ roars Youngest Son. ‘You waste my time. Where are they hiding?’

Another man lifts his head. Li Sha, who leases three of my farms.

‘I have heard, Sir,’ he cries. ‘They are camped in the valley adjoining Shady Wood.’

My heart twists with tension. Yet who can blame Li Sha for wishing to save his family?

We are disturbed by the clip-clop of hooves. The soldiers raise their weapons instinctively. Then a large, grey cavalry horse, still saddled, trots into the square. Men rush to seize its bridle and it rears in panic. Youngest Son examines the beast curiously. Only I and Wudi knows why it is riderless, that the Imperial cavalry let their mounts go free.

‘What is
that
doing here?’ demands Youngest Son. ‘Do you mock me?’

The peasants cower. He motions and two soldiers drag Li Sha to his feet.

‘How do you know the rebels are in the valley near Shady Wood? Why should they hide somewhere so barren? There is no grazing for their horses in that valley.

Speak quickly.’

I step forward anxiously. Li Sha quivers, too frightened to speak.

‘Hit him!’ orders Youngest Son.

A single blow to the stomach. Li Sha lies groaning in the dust of the square. At last, between gasps, he manages to pant: ‘My second cousin. . . a goatherd, Sir. . . saw them a day ago.’

‘Only a day? Are you sure?’

Youngest Son motions again. Another dull thud, this time in the chest. Li Sha cries out pitifully.

‘Sure, lord, I’m sure!’

‘What about the rest of you?’ demands Youngest Son.

‘Use your tongues before I cut them out.’

At this, the wretches in the dust call out confirmation of the beaten man’s words.

‘Now we are getting somewhere,’ says Youngest Son.

It is time. I take another step forward.

‘Perhaps,’ I say, tactfully. ‘They know no more than this.’

Youngest Son glares at me. I meet his eye.

‘After all,’ I add. ‘You know these fellows yourself.

Surely you remember Yuan, the innkeeper, and Li Sha here! And what of Chiao Sung the blacksmith! All honourable men you’ve known all your life. And your old playmates over there, Turtle and Little Feng. None of them love a rebel, I’m sure. All are honoured to serve you, now you have returned among us.’

‘Return to the house, Father,’ he commands.

I have no choice but to obey, my dignity tattered.

Slowly, sadly, I leave the square, feeling every year of my age. I fear he gains satisfaction from this scene, as though humiliating the village cancels the fact that once he was shamed here. The sound of further beatings and interrogation rise behind me, until dispersed by the quickening breeze.

*

I withdraw to my room and take to the couch. Memories swirl and merge, vapours of mist above a lake at dawn, the waters of the past evaporating. Pleasant to remember pleasant things. Not so, pain. Yet who has not suffered?

At the age of fifteen I graduated from the Provincial to the Metropolitan Academy, along with a thousand others drawn by fluttering banners of wealth and honour. We came from every corner of the Empire. Most of the students were the sons of scholar-officials maintaining family tradition, like P’ei Ti, or nobles seeking real power in the state. A few, such as Cousin Zhi, were from wealthy merchant families.

All gathered for the prize of office. If one graduated from the Metropolitan Academy, governorships and mag-istracies, posts with a hundred underlings might flutter one’s way. Yet the test was hard. Just a few would negoti-ate the narrow tunnel of the examination and, of those, many succeeded only after a second or third attempt.

Failure, of course, did not bring ruin. To reach the Metropolitan Academy required success in the First Examination. This alone earned the right to lesser office, a lifetime of dutiful clerking for one’s superiors. But we all aimed higher, whatever the price. Ambition ruined many a young man’s happiness.

The Metropolitan Academy stood in a broad park at the edge of the government enclosure. Pavilions and learning halls, gardens criss-crossed by artful streams to aid contemplation, shrines honouring His Imperial Majesty’s ancestors and those gods favoured by scholars. Here were libraries and dining halls, dormitories where ambitious students lived like monks disgusted by pleasure.

Sometimes I considered requesting a place in the dormitories but always held back. For all its dangers, Uncle Ming’s house offered freedoms undreamt of by those boarding within the Academy walls. And if nothing else, Uncle kept a good table. I could even bear Honoured Aunty’s scowls when the alternative was waking at the exact time a thousand others woke, eating with them, vacating one’s bowels with them, studying, performing the day’s ritual, then more study and eating, studying once again, then sleeping. Every hour regulated by the huge, bronze gong beside the Chief Examiner’s dwelling. At least the room in Uncle’s octagonal tower was my own. I have always required a private ledge to perch on.

Su Lin gradually faded from my waking thoughts.

Indeed, I was too busy to remember her. But at night she often stole gracefully through my dreams, and I almost smelt the heady musk of her perfume mingled with sweat, and awoke to find my thighs sticky, the bed empty. My room cold and dark.

One may meet graduates of the Academy who complain about its strictures. Who has not? The years of laborious study like clambering up a cliff lined with jagged stones, wearying spirit and body, parching youth beneath a merciless sky. Yet I rarely knew weariness. In those years I felt especially alive.

My joy was a love of knowledge for its own sake. My eagerness was to unlock significance through the keys I had been offered. Such intricate, fine, weighty keys!

Naturally, the Five Classics dominated. But there were other writings, some dating back a thousand years and more. Ideas contending as flints spark fire, systems of thought which once regulated and confounded our ancestors, tradition a tangle of silken threads each generation must unpick, and re-weave to wear again.

P’ei Ti had graduated alongside me, leaving behind most of his former companions, who were incapable of progressing further. Again we found ourselves beside each other in lessons and this proximity grew into firm friendship. Often we left our studies to sit by the West Lake, discussing our teachers and fellow students before hurrying back to read scrolls by the light of flickering lamps until our eyes smarted.

We shared dreams of the future, too. P’ei Ti’s were exact. He wished to advise His Imperial Majesty on matters relating to administration, which he believed could be improved through small, painless reforms, so subtle no one would notice until the benefit had been attained. My own ambitions were more diverse, and vague.

So three years passed until we were eighteen. One summer afternoon we lolled by the West Lake munching sunflower seeds. Shells spread across the water, then floated away. A hundred boats busy on the lake, fishing or carrying pleasure parties. Boatmen shouted greetings to each other. Ladies squealed elegantly.

‘Yun Cai,’ said P’ei Ti. ‘In a year’s time we will sit the examination. If you pass, what do you desire to become?’

‘Ah,’ I said. ‘I wish to win the most beautiful courtesan in the whole city for my unique appreciation.’

He laughed, and punched my arm.

‘As does everyone. What do
you
wish to become?’

‘That’s obvious,’ I said. ‘I will write poems so fine and in characters so exquisite that people will sing my words in disreputable taverns and tea-houses and on street corners. Oh, and I will drink a jar of wine for breakfast then spend the whole day wondering why the world is upside down.’

‘That would be a proper answer if I were not serious.’

‘So am I!’

P’ei Ti generally loved my mad, unconventional turns of mood, but not today.

‘One doesn’t endure the lectures of Old-Tufty-Beard on the venerable rites merely to get drunk. No study is needed for that,’ he said.

‘True.’

‘Well then?’

I affected to yawn.

‘I suppose I will serve the Son of Heaven, while I prepare for the final Imperial examination,’ I said. ‘Everyone must do something.’

‘That is my plan, too,’ he said, earnestly.

‘I knew that already. First you will become Censor, then Chief Minister. Then the Empire will enter a golden age inspired by your wisdom.’

‘Your mockery is only justified because I have not yet proved myself. But aren’t you describing the duty all talented men owe, to both His Imperial Majesty and the people?’

‘You are so grave today, P’ei Ti! It quite shames me.’

‘I hope so.’

‘As for me,’ I said. ‘I wish to pass the Imperial Examination merely to astound my father, who I have not seen for so long. Beyond that, I imagine no further.’

‘It is fitting to please one’s father,’ said P’ei Ti.

His own father had recently gained the post of Prefect in distant Nanning, leaving wife and family in the capital for three long years. I knew P’ei Ti missed him deeply. His filial piety was unfeigned; an excellent virtue, all would agree. Certainly, I honoured him for it. Good people inspire goodness among those they meet, so I was happy my answer satisfied him. He would have been less impressed that I also longed to prove my worth to a faith-less singing girl. Or to her memory. Such are the mind’s contradictions. Wisdom and folly contend, yet somehow they rub along together.

‘Besides,’ I added, mischievously. ‘I must pass the Imperial Examination for no better reason than it would mortify Cousin Zhi. Come to think of it, there
is
no better reason.’

We both laughed. Suddenly, in that way he had of knitting his brows into a determined frown, P’ei Ti announced:

‘Then you and I, dear Yun Cai, must take earnest thought upon a crucial matter. I am sure you know what I mean.’

I flicked another sunflower shell to join the others spreading out across the lake.

‘Look how slowly they float,’ I murmured.

He sighed with frustration.

‘Surely you have given thought to a patron?’ he asked.

‘None at all.’

‘But passing the examination is not enough! Without a sponsor you could wait years for a worthy position.’

Naturally P’ei Ti was right. Merit and talent are feeble without an influential patron; it was essential to win the goodwill of a highly placed official who might recommend one for a plump posting.

‘You have someone in mind?’ I enquired.

‘Several. That is why I wished to speak to you. We must beat others to a great man’s door or find his house already full.’

‘But which great man?’

‘Why, the most useful to us. And I have a plan.’

This did not altogether surprise me.

‘If I use my family’s influence to gather a list of names,’ he continued. ‘Then you can write poems praising their virtues. After all, it is a craft at which you excel.’

I caught his intention at once. P’ei Ti had always been an indifferent poet.

‘If you give me details of these sponsors,’ I said. ‘Their titles and achievements, I could write enough poems for both of us. That way, to use my Cousin Hong’s favourite phrase, ‘everyone will be happy’.’

I sensed his shame at having to bargain for my help.

‘You would be doing me a great favour,’ I added. ‘I would be forever in your family’s debt.’

He nodded sheepishly.

‘Then we have a pact,’ he said. ‘My knowledge will match your versifying.’

I smiled.

‘Not if you take these great men at their own estimation, or even the world’s!’ I cried. ‘Remember the words of Lao-tzu:
knowledge studies others; wisdom is self-known.
’

The next day P’ei Ti gave me a scroll containing information about six possible patrons and within a fortnight I had written a dozen verses lauding their sagacity, power, fame and exceptional virtue. Those I wrote on behalf of P’ei Ti were conventional and sincerely flattering, as befitted his character. They were written
old style
, and