The Mandate of Heaven (55 page)

Hsiung rose heavily and withdrew to the Salt Minister’s residence where he lay on a silk-strewn bed, unable to sleep or recover his strength. Would he have rested more easily had he known the penalty exacted on Chief Overseer Pi-tou by an assembly of the Salt Pans’ foremen? But boiling a man alive in a huge iron cauldron while hundreds watch and jeer is rarely restful. Fortunately, he soothed himself with images of beautiful Ying-ge – and the knowledge that a jade disk given by her as a love token had warded off a Mongol arrow meant for his heart.

Eyelids caked with their own brine, sticky from griefless weeping, would not open. Could not. A strain of muscles never before noticed prying those lids apart. Suddenly revealed: washes of light filtering through coated lashes. Golden light becoming blue, a realisation of sky …

Teng stirred into consciousness, aware of pain in every limb, his chest aching to draw breath. Worse was the itchy thirst, worse even than hunger – in itself a desperate kind of hunger– so his mind became a single lust: water. Suddenly he thought,
I am dying of thirst
, as small children declare their situation to the world in perplexed wonder. Then he had another thought:
Let it be soon
.

The blue sky contained wisps of cloud. He had seen that sky before! Exactly when, he was less sure. Once it had lain across his eyes as skies are reflected upon clear lakes. He had seen a special lake once. Where was it? A half-forgotten shrine where a young woman bathed in shimmering green water, her pure skin glowing … A painful gargle rose in his throat. By the time it subsided, he was spent. Oh, he thought, now is the time to commence my next incarnation. He waited, falling back into a dark, dry dream.

Something new penetrated the mist. Had he been conscious, he might have feared a fox taking a bite out of his nose or a bird probing with its beak before tugging out his eyeballs. Surely now he would meet the Infernal Judges! Be honoured by them as one of their exalted caste, a scholar-official, an Honourable Deng!

Something stroked his lips. They were solid as mud-baked bricks. And again. Unexpectedly, his tongue – heavy as a laden barge – tried to move forward. Again, a brush against his lips. His tongue stirred.

Now hearing returned, bringing messages from the darkness. Were those voices? He grew certain of it. Words were less clear.

The stroking moved to his eyes. He shivered. Felt the eyelids stir like slaves whose chains have been removed. A moment later they opened and a face filled the sky. Teng panicked. It was a ghost! Poor, faithful Shensi! He was waiting to greet him when he woke in Hell.

Now his lips were being moved by some outside force. Then the tip of his tongue melted into softness like a clod of dry earth watered gently.
Swallow
, Teng urged himself,
drink more
… that was his last thought for a while. His body took care of the drinking without a need for thought, until the first droplets trickled down the baked tunnel of his throat.

For two weeks he lay on the foggy border dividing all things from their final destination. It turned out to be a far from lonely place. All manner of faces swam into view, some strangers, others remembered from his former life, albeit vaguely. There was Shensi, of course, ugly and scowling but no less welcome for that. And a big fat man’s face topped with a high official’s fancy, tasselled silk hat. But Teng could not recall his name, only that once he had met him when fleeing a dark, terrible cave.

Best of all was a face he recognised yet did not – or not quite. Its shape was familiar, even some of its expressions, but it had changed too much for Teng to be convinced.

The first time it appeared he turned away in exhaustion and fell asleep. When it returned, Teng accepted with a sense of acute wonder it belonged to Hsiung. Oddly enough, this realisation was more unsettling than when he had been unsure.

As Teng grew aware of his surroundings he realised his bed stood in a chamber decorated with silk drapes and wall-paintings. Servants circulated constantly. Though he felt too feeble to rise or even sit up without help, every few hours water and pulped food were fed to him until, day by day, he regained a little appetite.

The time came when his vision recovered full clarity. He had been able to speak for some days and so he asked the servant crouching in a corner to raise the paper blinds. The man obeyed with an alacrity and respect that gave Teng new strength.

Up the blinds went, revealing a large garden filled with flowers and trees, floating insects and butterflies. For a moment Teng watched, lulled by soft colours in the sunshine, for it was late spring and the monsoon had paused, a delightful time of year. Then he peered more closely. He had detected an unusual garden ornament – no, a dozen of them – hanging from ropes on the high wall that surrounded the garden. He squinted to see more closely. His eyes opened wide.

A dozen men dangled from iron spikes. All were a purple-grey, no, mottled blue, rotting in the heat. A large crow landed on one of the sagging heads and pecked vigorously. Teng turned to stare at the wall.

‘Who?’ he croaked. Every word was still painful. ‘Who are they?’

The servant looked around for someone passing by, but the garden was deserted. Finally he noticed the hanging men.

‘My old masters,’ he said without a trace of mourning. ‘Every male in the Zhong clan hangs either there or in the market square, back to the third generation.’

‘Why?’ managed Teng.

‘Because they betrayed the Noble Count,’ explained the servant, fearfully. ‘May he live a thousand years!’

A thousand years
, echoed in Teng’s mind.
A thousand years
. He connected Yun Shu to the corpses rotting on the wall. Her husband’s family were no more. Then he was dreaming a fruitless search through the smouldering, smoke-blackened corridors of Deng Mansions. Finally he reached the miniature mountain constructed by Grandfather Deng in imitation of Holy Mount Chang. She turned to him as he climbed towards her. ‘They have done to the Zhongs what the Mongols did to us Dengs!’ he cried. ‘We are free to marry!’ His dream folded into darkness.

Teng recovered sufficiently to receive formal visitors. He found that, with the aid of a stick, he could totter round the garden to a bench set before an oval pond. Averting his eyes from the dangling Zhongs allowed him to appreciate the flowerbeds, the gentle rustle of rare bamboos. Humming birds weaved over the still pond, yellow-crested and darting as they snatched droning insects.

One afternoon he returned to his room to find the servants in a fluster. Half a dozen had appeared from nowhere, scrubbing the floor and artfully strewing flower petals round precious, paper-thin porcelain bowls. Others lit tapering cones of subtle incense. Still more produced trays of wine and tea and covered bowls of delicacies.

When Teng asked the reason he was ignored. From this he deduced his visitor was not only feared, but his arrival was imminent. He took a seat upon the couch and awaited events.

A butler preceded His Highness to ensure that all was proper. Satisfied, he withdrew, murmuring to someone further up the corridor. Feet scurried, followed by heavy, booted footfalls. Teng was confronted by the arrival of a tall, broad-limbed man. The servants fell to their knees, pressing their foreheads to the freshly scrubbed floor. Teng limited himself to a bow while remaining on the couch – it was doubtful he could have managed more. In any case, kowtowing to the family kitchen boy was a humiliation he could not contemplate.

It became apparent he was not the only one who was uneasy. The Noble Count of Lingling looked around the room as though seeking something to criticise. He stood awkwardly, tapping a large bunched fist with an impatient hand. His weathered face, though not unkindly, seemed melancholy to Teng. The exquisitely tailored silks he wore somehow did not fit. Teng thought it best to break the long silence.

‘Noble Count,’ he said, ‘forgive me for not rising. You see how I am …’

As Teng had anticipated, reference to his weakness granted Hsiung enough superiority to feel at ease.

‘I take it you have been well treated by my servants?’ he said.

‘Impeccably treated. I owe you my life.’

Now Hsiung relaxed further. He waved his hand nonchalantly as though such gifts were trifles. Still he hovered.

‘It would be the greatest honour for me if you took the refreshments you have arranged,’ suggested Teng, delicately.

‘Yes, I have a little time. Why not?’

Hsiung took a seat swept first by a diligent servant with a gigantic fly-whisk. Wine was brought and delicate pastries stuffed with shredded swan’s wings and strips of roasted bear paws flavoured with a rich, pungent spice. Both were medicinal and intended to aid Teng’s recovery.

‘You have grown since I last saw you!’ exclaimed Teng, sipping his wine.

Hsiung shot him a suspicious look. ‘Of course. We were just boys.’

‘If only my honoured father could see us together,’ said Teng, sadly. ‘It would give him great joy. Yet I do not know for certain whether he is even still alive.’

‘I have ordered spies to confirm that,’ said Hsiung. ‘But I believe he is safe. Be sure I’ll do all I can to protect him. Such is the respect and gratitude I feel for Deng Nan-shi.’

He was interrupted by Teng clutching gratefully at his hands. So unusual was intimate contact with the Noble Count his attendants moaned excitedly.

The two boyhood friends – scholar and soldier, former master and kitchen boy, man of meagre means and rich, triumphant warlord – glanced up to find Chancellor Liu Shui beaming down at them, sheer delight on his fleshy face.

‘At last!’ he cried. ‘A truly advantageous friendship for Your Highness!’

Teng felt Hsiung pull away his hand. The Noble Count laughed uneasily.

‘How so, Liu Shui?’ he asked.

‘That is simple,’ replied the Chancellor. ‘As I have mentioned before, Confucius names three advantageous friendships. With the sincere, the upright and the man of perceptive observation. Surely Honourable Deng Teng possesses those qualities.’

Teng bowed modestly and replied: ‘If I am to be pine, bamboo and plum tree, first I must recover a little sap.’

Chancellor Liu Shui grunted approvingly at this clever allusion.

‘What is all this talk of trees?’ asked Hsiung.

‘They are symbols of friendship,’ explained Teng, ‘for neither pine, bamboo nor plum tree die in winter but remain constant and blossom before spring comes.’

‘Aptly expressed!’ said Liu Shui.

Teng detected a shadow of resentment in Hsiung’s face as though the Noble Count wanted all his Chancellor’s praise for himself. He would need to step carefully. Pleading exhaustion, he was glad to regain the relative safety of his sickbed.

* * *

The next day Hsiung returned, this time with servants bearing boxes of books, writing equipment and silken clothes. All the garments were used, there having been no time to measure and make so many splendid outfits. Teng expressed his appreciation in the warmest terms, yet could not help wondering if he would soon be wearing the clothes of men currently rotting outside. It seemed an ominous way to regain one’s dignity.