The Old Dragon's Head Read online

  “What’s the matter?” Cui asked.

  “Is it that obvious?”

  “My ladle wouldn’t prise open your furrowed brow. Come on, out with it.”

  When he told him about it, Cui scoffed, “Now you’re seeing visions?”

  “I honestly don’t know if that’s what they are.” Bolin shook his head. His bones ached as if he had walked the length of the Great Wall. He had never had headaches or visions before. He hoped he never had them again.

  “Listen,” Cui said. “To see a ghost, the old women claim you need yin-yang eyes. Soothsayers have them. Clairvoyants have them. Priests have them. But you’re a fisherman’s son. How did you get yin-yang eyes? You can’t buy them in the market, you know?” Cui added with a guffaw.

  Bolin felt hurt and confused. After a moment, he said, “I don’t know much about these yin-yang eyes. Anyway, it was more than just a vision.”

  “What was it then?” Cui asked.

  Bolin took a deep breath. “The event I saw really happened.”

  “How do you know?”

  Cui glared at him like he was mad. He wasn’t. He was certain about this. With pinched lips, Bolin said, “I know who the man was. It was Heng. And the little boy was his son, Ru.”

  Cui’s mouth dropped open. “What? Luli’s family? Are you sure?”

  Bolin gritted his teeth and nodded. “The family are our neighbours in Shanhai village. Ru is my friend. He was five when it happened. Me, I was suckling at my mother’s breast, so I have no memories of it. The incident so traumatised him that he’s barely spoken since. Now it’s haunting me.”

  While they carried on clearing the debris from the area in front of the Zhendong Gate, Bolin was preoccupied. He kept seeing a forlorn little boy standing in the long, dark shadow of the wall, watching as his father plunged out of the air and spread-eagled in front of him.

  Bolin shook his head; maybe that would make the vision go away. And what about the yin-yang eyes? By a strange coincidence, Luli, Ru’s mother, was a seer and a healer. She had them. But he, Bolin, could never have them. Then why had he ‘seen’ such a gruesome slice of history? Was it karma? Did he have too much yang, or too little yin? Either way, he must have erred from the path of the Tao, the true way to Heaven. The vision must be a mistake, an aberration. It wouldn’t happen again to him.

  Before either of them could speak again, the guards on the upper battlements raised a hue and cry, waving the yellow and red emblem of the House of Yan. The vanguard of the prince’s army had appeared on the horizon. Bolin was stationed within the fortress’ confines, so couldn’t see the column. That was about to change when a runner called for him and Cui to report to Major Renshu, the commandant’s adjutant.

  The major was inspecting troops at the entrance to the tunnel beneath the Zhendong Gate. He and Cui gave him their best salute. The major said, “You two, come with me.”

  What had he done wrong now? Was this karma? Bolin feared the worst.

  The major shouted orders at them. “I want you to form an honour guard of twenty soldiers and escort the monks out to meet the prince’s column.”

  Cui nodded with enthusiasm. “Yes, Major.”

  What a relief and a privilege, Bolin thought. Curious though – the major’s voice had a Mongolian twang. Then again, many Mongols had settled in China – or the Zhongguo as it was also called – and were loyal citizens.

  The welcome drums raised a clamour. The major scampered off to greet the vanguard, which was already marching into the fortress with heads held high. Their halberds prodding the sky, they led the riders into the huge square by the Bell and Drum Tower amidst loud cheers. The riders carried tattered Mongol banners and broken flagpoles. Many sported spears abutted by a severed head.

  As they passed nearby, Bolin frowned. “I expected more trophies after a major campaign. Where are the chains of prisoners, heads bowed in shameful defeat? Where are the rich spoils of war?”

  Cui smirked.

  “Come on, Cui. What’s going on?”

  “Well, I bumped into a friend in the White Mulberry last night.”

  Cui knew everyone who frequented the well-known inn, especially its controversial proprietor, One Hand Zhou.

  “Tell me, who was it this time – the constable, the camel master, or the assistant salt commissioner? You seem to know a lot of important people.”

  “I do, but it was none of those,” Cui said with a wicked smile. “It was the rider who brought the news of the prince’s arrival yesterday.”

  That got Bolin’s attention.

  With an air of calm authority, Cui explained, “It concerns the Great Ming Code and its new rules for dealing with barbarian peoples. The Hongwu Emperor wrote them before he died. You see, we live in the land of the Yellow Dragon. We are a civilised, cultured and sedentary people. The Mongols on the other hand inhabit the land of the Blue Wolf. They’re wild, migratory and barbaric. So it’s important that no prisoners or banners contaminate the sacred land of the Zhongguo. In tonight’s New Year celebrations, the prince will throw the captured flags into the cleansing fires.”

  “Well, that’s reassuring,” Bolin murmured.

  “It is but listen; the victory came with a heavy price.” Cui glanced over his shoulder and whispered, “During the campaign, the prince lost his most able commander, General Shimei.”

  Before he could reply, the major returned and ushered them into line with the honour guard and the monks. They followed the major into the tunnel. At the far end of it, the drawbridge had already been lowered over the moat. The prince’s column had halted about one li – about three hundred paces – from the Zhendong Gate, their horses pawing the dirt, oozing sweat into the chill morning air. Six abreast and dressed in battle attire, the cavalry waved back at the tumultuous welcome from the massed soldiers on the wall. Many hung down from the parapet on ropes, ladders and cradles to gain a brilliant, if unconventional, view of the victorious army.

  He and Cui set off amidst a guard leading eight Taoist monks, including Dong the Abbot. Banging drums, clashing symbols and shaking rattles, the monks were making enough noise to scare every stray ghost between the mountains and the sea. Bolin revelled in the rich and heady atmosphere of the occasion. Every step took him nearer to the prince. His mother and father would be so proud of him. Well, if this was karma, his fortunes were riding the dragon clouds.

  The rising sun shone on the prince’s magnificent black stallion. With a regal wave, he acknowledged the rousing welcome echoing along the battlements. Standing near to the prince, an equerry held the reins of a riderless horse, its armour bedecked in the red and gold livery of a commanding officer. That must be the dead general’s.

  Bolin could smell the sweat of the two horses and see their mud-caked hooves. But his headache returned, accompanied by an incessant ringing in his ears. An eerie feeling crept over him like an early morning mist over the moors.

  The prince’s steed seemed unnerved as well, because it pawed the ground, kicking up spurts of the damp earth, which agitated the riderless horse. The prince hauled on his reins, but it resisted, snorting loudly.

  The riderless mount bucked its head, throwing off the dead general’s armour, which clattered onto the unyielding earth. The equerry patted him on the back while pulling on its tether. Instead of calming the beast, its nostrils flared and its eyes opened wide as if in terror.

  Amidst cries of alarm, all Bolin could hear was heavy thrumming against his temples. The air in front of him seemed cloudy, full of swirling strands of ch’i. The ch’i currents whirled around the cavalry, who seemed unaware of its invisible presence. Three paces in front of the prince’s horse, an ethereal figure emerged from the spectral mists. Bolin inhaled sharply. Who or what is that?

  The spectral figure menaced the prince’s horse, which neighed and kicked its hooves wildly. Straining every sinew, the prince hung
on to his reins for dear life.

  Bolin noticed thick crimson streaks running like the tracks of a wagon wheel across the man’s chest. A dried stream of blood that had flowed from a missing ear now caked the warrior’s neck and shoulder. In his hand, the man clutched a tattered, blood-speckled parchment. The spectral figure was wearing silk of gold and red – a general’s uniform.

  The ghostly figure struck fear into the dead general’s horse, which reared up, snorting. Unable to handle it, the equerry let go the reins, slipped and fell. The horse’s whirling hooves crashed on his head, splitting it like an egg, splattering brains and gore over the prince’s silken uniform.

  The world stopped. The prince stared at the blood on his damask tunic. The column held its collective breath. A pall of silence descended on the ramparts, the initial playful welcoming atmosphere suffocated by a moment of horror. In that hiatus, Bolin seemed the only one still awake and aware. He could see what was happening. Why couldn’t they? In that suspended moment, he felt as if some demon, some errant spirit, occupied his being, as if – he was possessed. The weird, eerie feeling passed almost as quickly as it had come, releasing his voice to shout as loud as he could, “A ghost! There! Look!”

  He stabbed his finger at the spectre.

  His words broke the spell that shackled the world. Fright and loathing replaced the cheers from the battlements and all mayhem broke loose. Horses reared, throwing riders onto the ground. Soldiers rushed around like frantic geese, spreading chaos. The dead general’s horse ran off by the side of the moat. Riders from the column gave chase. Commotion surrounded the prince, who clung to the reins for dear life. A military physician ran across the drawbridge to care for the injured.

  Cui’s cries of alarm rent the air. “Who? What are you talking about?” The old soldier yelled.

  “It’s General Shimei. Can’t you—?”

  “I don’t see anything,” Cui interrupted him. “Besides, I told you that he’s dead!”

  “I know. It’s a ghost. He’s there!” Bolin felt like his face was about to explode with rage.

  A voice of authority calmed the dispute. “I see him. Leave this to me.” It was Dong, the Abbot of the local temple. In moments, the Taoist monks struck up a clamour on their drums and cymbals, unnerving the general’s ghost. As Dong led them towards the spectre, it shimmered around the edges, lost its human form and gradually melted back into the clouds of ch’i like a man sucked into quicksand.

  Once the ghost had gone, a semblance of order was restored. The riders brought back the run-away horse. The prince’s equerry patted his horse. Whispering in its ear, he brought it under control. The prince’s entourage gathered around him. The officers harangued the column back into line.

  The other equerry lay in a crimson pool, his brains leaking onto the cold ground. Even Bolin could see that the man was on his way to Heaven – or hell.

  As soon as Shimei’s ghost had disappeared, Bolin’s headache went too. What a relief that was. He could move. He could think about what had just happened. Why was he ‘seeing’ a dead general? Why had the equerry had his brains scattered over the ground like seed? And how close was the horse to killing the prince?

  With frantic intent, he turned these events over in his mind.

  Dong came over and, to his surprise, greeted him with a low bow, denoting respect. “Good work,” the Abbot said. “I hadn’t spotted the ghost. But you had. I didn’t know you had yin-yang eyes. Anyway, once I knew where it was, the monks could exorcise it. You did very well.”

  “I did? Thank you, Abbot,” Bolin said, flushing with embarrassment.

  Dong hadn’t finished and explained, “Dead soldiers are a terrible burden on the living. Their ghosts march alongside the column, sit on the supply wagons and hang around the camp fires. What you did was brave and demonstrated your loyalty to your fief lord.”

  “I didn’t know,” Bolin stammered.

  “I’m sure your commanding officer will want to thank you, too,” Dong said.

  Bolin peered through the brightening rays of the sun as the Taoist monks marched along the length of the column, smashing their drums and cymbals, clearing the column of any lingering spectral presence. The monks must have known what they were doing, because the horses and men relaxed. Even the general’s riderless horse quietened.

  The column reformed. The prince’s bodyguards lined up alongside him, halberds pointing up and frowns pointing down. To a subdued welcome, Bolin, Cui, Dong and his monks led the Prince of Yan and his huge army over the drawbridge, through the tunnel and into the square by the Drum and Bell Tower.

  The prince greeted the awaiting crowd with a regal wave. As his equerry corralled his horse, he descended like a god, an apotheosis to grace his minions on earth. Was he really the future Son of Heaven? Everyone must have believed so, because they threw themselves onto the ground in full reverence.

  Bolin hated kow-towing. It was a humiliating and undignified way for one human to show respect to another. Everyone was so compliant, timid and unquestioning, that he had to keep those rebellious thoughts to himself. He lay face down on the bald earth, growing numb with cold. His nose was snared on a stray twig and his hand rested in an icy puddle.

  His overactive mind drifted back to the spectres haunting his life.

  Yin-yang eyes, for the second time. Meaning the first was no aberration. What good are they anyway? To ‘see’ a friend’s father die a gruesome death and a general’s ghost with a severed ear? But wait, that vision helped save the prince. Even Dong praised me. So, there was some good karma in it. I don’t know. It’s confusing. I’m afraid of the next headache. Afraid of what I’ll see next.

  CHAPTER 3

  End and Beginning

  Iron will erode, rocks will decay.

  Only the spirit never wears away.

  CHINESE SAYING

  After the prince disappeared into his quarters, everyone hauled themselves off the ground, brushed the dirt and leaves from mud-stained robes. Throughout the rest of the day, Bolin and Cui helped the fortress troops find billets for the arriving prince’s army. Bolin didn’t know what to think about them. Yes, they were conquering heroes, but they were rebels too, fighting against kith and kin.

  As dusk fell and the last remnants of the cavalry units trudged over the drawbridge, Bolin tripped over a lip in the pavement, just managing to keep his balance. If that wasn’t a warning to tread with more care in his life, what was? He couldn’t shake the nagging feeling that he was at odds with himself and the world.

  The ghost of an army general had struck terror in him and sowed panic amongst the prince’s battle-hardened warriors. In a state of war, how could he be at peace with the Tao? The fabric of the world was out of joint, like a clown becoming an Emperor, or an Emperor becoming a clown.

  Tonight was the turn of the tide, the eve of the New Year, the eve of the new – the dark – moon. When the darkness of yin was full, the light-giving yang returned and the Heavenly cycle recommenced. On the crest of a propitious wave, he resolved to make a new start.

  When dusk fell, Bolin came off duty and went straight to meet Cui in the throng gathering in the Bell and Drum Square. Scores of lictors hurried around its perimeter lighting the torches and placing them back on their cradles. A small battalion of men was hauling planks of wood, branches and anything flammable into the centre of the square for the bonfire.

  The Shanhai villagers and off-duty soldiers were swelled by officials including the magistrate, constables, commissioners, mandarins and other officials from the Yamen, as well as the tailor, carpenter and silk merchant, blacksmith and rice merchant. Peddlers touting sausages, duck and chicken vied with others selling tea, wine and rice vodka under the shadows of the Bell and Drum Tower. The traditional red lanterns swayed in the breeze blowing off the Bohai Sea. The animated crowd, the rich smell of dumplings and the boisterous activities of a troupe of
acrobats and stilt walkers drew his attention away from past anxieties to present joys.

  Bolin stood as near as he could to the Zhendong Gate, a formidable tower with walls thirty paces thick and crowned by another tower with two elevations. Beneath it ran an arched tunnel, with a drawbridge and moat at the outer end and heavy wooden gates at the inner end, which was where Bolin was stood. Like the rest of the crowd, he wanted to be the first to see the procession of acrobats, singers, dancers and musicians gathering at the far, moat end of the tunnel.

  While they waited, folk chatted amongst themselves, exchanging gifts, greetings and well wishes. Lovers embraced. Mothers fussed over their sons and fathers hoisted their young daughters onto their shoulders.

  A procession of monks entered the tunnel to clear away debris and litter. Behind a donkey cart, a monk carrying a bag of sackcloth hurried along, head bowed and a burning torch in his hand, examining the path with furious intent. Jin was the assistant to the Abbot of the Temple of the Eight Immortals. From previous years, Bolin knew what Jin was looking for and called out, “Did you find any yet?”

  “Indeed I have, Master Bolin, indeed I have,” Jin looked up and nodded. His round moon face shone with perspiration.

  “Show me?” Bolin asked.

  Jin obliged by plunging his hand into the sack and held out his palm, saying, “This is the biggest piece. I reckon it must have sheared off a passing cart.”

  As his head swirled and his temples pounded, Bolin let out a long, slow groan. He gazed at the piece of metal and swooned. He would have fallen over if Cui hadn’t propped him up.

  “What’s the matter, young fella? Is it the iron this time?” Cui asked, gripping his elbow.