The Mandate of Heaven (11 page)

Wriggling through the crawl-way, now almost completely overgrown, he entered the rectangle of smoke-blackened stone. It had not changed since the spring, except the bones they had patiently buried were more visible than ever. Not a trace remained of the dead dog. Teng realised he was shivering. How did bones always rise to the surface? However carefully one laid them to rest, they broke through the earth like shoots in springtime, seeking a little more life, greedy for the sun.

As he wept silently for Hsiung, gazing out across the grey, still waters of the lake, a large merchant junk rounded the headland from the harbour, followed by another and another. The fleet had set sail for the Salt Pans. Nothing could restore his friend to Deng Mansions.

Teng crept to the very edge of the cliff, examining each ship in turn for the smallest sign of Hsiung. But the slaves were a huddled mass in the open hold.

Soon the last ship had passed; the fleet manoeuvred into a loose diamond formation, their stiff bamboo sails hoisted. For a long while, Teng watched them dwindle into the distant haze of the horizon. He thought of Yun Shu, how he had seen her borne away in a wagon of servants, as much a prisoner as Hsiung. Of the three friends – pine, bamboo and plum – only he remained free.

Six-hundred-
li
Lake, Central China.
Winter, 1314

Yun Shu pondered her next incarnation as she climbed a steep dirt track beside the sluggish Min River. When summer brought the monsoon these placid waters would froth: for now, the winter dry season lingered.

It was a way little-travelled, especially since rebel bands had settled in the district. Fishermen in the port of Yulan, where she had disembarked from a merchant junk carrying salt fish and hemp, had warned her to beware brigands.

‘Surely they will not trouble a Nun of Serene Perfection?’ she had asked, her eyes wide. Though life had taught her to trust nothing and no one she was a forgetful student.

The fishermen had grinned as they examined the young nun. Yun Shu’s hand rose unconsciously to straighten her topknot, flowing in the style of ‘whirlwind clouds’ and held in place by a modest bone comb. Her blue quilted robe hugged her figure against the chilly weather. She wore a nun’s large yellow kerchief round her slender neck. A conical straw hat hung beside a blue satchel containing scriptures and the Seven Treasures she had been given to sustain her journey. Gifts for the spirit as well as body: the two flowed through each other like cloud through air.

One by one the fishermen looked away to hide their amusement.

‘Let’s just say they
might
trouble you, Little Aunty,’ said the eldest. ‘And up there …’ He had gestured at the Bamboo Hills rising toward the distant slopes of Changshan, the Holy Mountain. ‘Up there,’ he had repeated more forcefully, ‘only the gibbons and tigers will hear you cry for help.’

Yun Shu pursed plump lips, then bowed gratefully, ‘You are kind,’ she said, ‘but I have an amulet that will certainly protect me.’

This seemed to reassure them, as well it might, coming from a Serene One.

‘Nevertheless,’ said the old fisherman, ‘I’ll send my sons up with fresh fish after the New Year. Just to see how Little Aunty is faring.’

A comforting thought as she climbed the lonely path into the hills.

The road followed the course of the river for many
li
, climbing through limestone ravines clad with moss and trailing vines. The hill country brooded in winter silence. There was no breeze, though the lake was famous for its winds. Bamboo hung motionless, leaves dry and yellow as withered fingers.

Yun Shu paused to drink from the icy waters of a pool – one of many formed by the river. She smelled wood smoke and recalled the warning about brigands.

Yet the smoke heralded the end of her journey: as Yun Shu emerged from a narrow, winding ravine onto a path above the river, she caught her first glimpse of Mirror Lake.

It filled a long, tear-shaped depression in the hills. The reason for its name was obvious. As the sun sank, ribbons of fire shimmered across the silvery surface. Pine trees and bamboo were reflected on the water. Any clouds passing high above could gaze down on their own image.

Tears welled, though Yun Shu had taught herself to never cry in public. A deep quiver ran through her: it was so long since she had felt even an approximation of joy. She savoured and gulped it like water after a parched journey. Then Yun Shu understood that Mirror Lake might reveal everything she needed to cleanse old wounds, however shameful.

She hastened along the shore path until her final destination came into view – and with it the wood smoke’s source.

No one knew how long Sitting-and-Whistling Pavilion had perched on the small, rocky island jutting out of Mirror Lake. Since before the Tang Dynasty, certainly. For centuries, any novice seeking to become a Serene One at Cloud Abode Monastery had been sent up here for an extended period of meditation. Here she might renounce foulness and confusion, purify herself through the prescribed rituals and generally maintain the shrine.

Sitting-and-Whistling Pavilion certainly needed maintenance. As Yun Shu drew near, she noticed how the wooden building leaned slightly. It was the size of a large barn. At the front ornate pillars propped up a curving roof of red clay tiles; at the rear were tiny rooms for visitors. A causeway of stepping stones led to the island, otherwise one could easily wade, for the lake was deep only in purity.

A flutter of smoke rose from the rooms at the back. Yun Shu stepped across the stones and followed a path round the outside of the shrine. Within she glimpsed glinting eyes and squat shapes: holy images, best greeted for the first time in daylight.

Round the back were two wooden cells and a covered porch where a fire smouldered in a cooking hearth of soot-stained bricks. A quick search revealed that whoever built the fire was no longer on the small island.

Exhausted from her long walk, Yun Shu slumped by the hearth. The night was cold and she wrapped herself in a blanket, feeding the flames with twigs. The bamboo groves whispered as the night breeze quickened. She could hear the calls of owls and apes, and – far away, she prayed – the triumphant roar of a tiger. Infinities of darkness stretched beyond comprehension, lent shape and meaning by glittering constellations.

Yun Shu knew that one day she might visit those same stars, the Immortals’ realm, if she could only transform herself and join the eternal Dao. Then those who had mocked and hurt and rejected and injured her would gaze up in wonder. Yet she would be too rapt on her journey upon a floating cloud, up, up, into Perfection, to even recall their names.

Another, more urgent part of her desired only a friendly voice and face. Yun Shu tried to imagine that such a person sat beside her. Unexpectedly, for she seldom cared to recall childhood, a tousle-haired earnest boy chanting a gloomy poem materialised in her mind. With him, a brooding lad too tall and broad for his age, leaning on a bamboo sword.

Hungry and cold as she was, memories eased her to a deep, dreamless sleep. The glowing embers of the fire dwindled into lifeless grey ash in the hearth.

A few days brought the New Year festival, the first she had ever spent alone. Yet Yun Shu was not truly alone. Clay statues of Immortals and gods surrounded her as she swept the shrine room of the Pavilion: kindly demon officials from the other world; fierce guardians with curved scimitars and angry red eyes. She scrubbed the floor with freezing water from the lake and polished the woodwork with lamp oil. At the prescribed hour she lit lamps and chanted from the sacred books.

On New Year’s morning the temple was cleaner than it had been for many months. Yun Shu knelt before the image of Lord Lao, rubbing a shine into his lacquered feet. Then she sensed someone in the doorway.

Turning quickly, she found a young girl peeping round the doorframe. She wore peasant clothing and had a gay, mischievous air.

‘Are you the new Aunty?’ demanded the girl. ‘They said you were young and pretty.’

Yun Shu rose, brushing her knees. She refrained from asking who
they
might be.

‘Now you are here, people will come to pray again,’ said the girl.

‘That would please Lord Lao very much,’ said Yun Shu.

‘Unless it’s Hornets’ Nest and his men,’ whispered the girl.

‘Hornets’ Nest? What a funny name! Who is he?’

‘You know,’ said the girl. She hid a nervous giggle behind her hands, then made a buzzing noise. ‘Grandma told me to bring you this. She has too many aches to come herself. Poor Grandma!’

The girl slid a large reed basket into the shrine with her foot.

‘You can step inside, you know,’ said Yun Shu. ‘Lord Lao wouldn’t be cross – and neither would I.’

She was answered by another giggle, hidden behind small hands.

‘Grandma says it’s unlucky here after what happened to the last Aunty. Watch out for Hornets’ Nest!’

With that, the little girl vanished and, though Yun Shu called after her, she hopped away over the stepping-stones, disappearing into the bamboo groves.

Inside the basket, Yun Shu found a week’s provisions. Simple fare: rice, millet, vegetables, and – no doubt to pour out as a sacrifice – a flask of wine. Yun Shu was not surprised by the food. She had been informed a local wise woman called Muxing, evidently the girl’s Grandma, was paid to supply visiting nuns.

As she boiled rice, Yun Shu watched flakes of snow flutter down. The sky was grey as the hardest stone.

All morning the snow fell until, by mid-afternoon, Yun Shu retreated to the shrine for warmth. An ancient fire pit lay in the centre of the earth floor and she built a small blaze. Soon red shadows danced over the walls and watchful statues.

Sipping from the wine flask, blankets round her shoulders, Yun Shu watched the thick, wet flakes swirling until the sky was a restless blur of motion. Though she seemed to look outwards, her whole being turned inwards – if the past may be said to live within a soul, or anywhere, once it has faded …

Yun Shu’s last New Year celebration with her family had occurred when she was fourteen. By then Father had already spent years posted far across Six-hundred-
li
Lake in the Salt Pans. Even then her memories of him were hazy. All her life he had been too busy to notice her, always hurrying and bustling or, if met by chance in the corridor, a pair of silk slippers and legs glimpsed from a kneeling position.

After her disobedient conduct on Monkey Hat Hill, Yun Shu had been permanently exiled to a tiny room attached to the servant quarters. To all practical intents, she had died as far as Father or Golden Lotus were concerned. Only on New Year’s Day or other important festivals was she ushered into their presence, and then merely to perform a silent kowtow. Her two brothers were forbidden to acknowledge her. If she encountered them by chance, she was instructed to face the wall until they had passed. The servants, however, were allowed to address her, as long as they used the title ‘Little Fox Fairy’.

So, from the age of eleven to fourteen she was a prisoner. But then, the entire family was confined. His Excellency Jebe Khoja had assigned them a house within Prince Arslan’s compound – a great honour. Yet the house was small compared to the mansion on Monkey Hat Hill and lay behind high walls patrolled by soldiers. They had become captives of fear, afraid to venture out in case rebels molested them.