The Old Dragon's Head Page 3

  “I-I don’t know. It must be,” Bolin replied. His heart was thumping like he’d run up the spiral stairs of the Great Pagoda.

  “Dear Bolin, may the healing gods look kindly on you,” Jin said with due reverence. “I must pick up every last piece of iron from the path of the procession. Iron is an enemy of the spirit worlds, of the old dragon – the Laolong – and, it would appear, of you. Please excuse me, so I can remove it from your presence – and everyone else’s.”

  As soon as Jin took the iron away, the pressure on Bolin’s head eased. He could actually think again. The iron had brought on the head pains, yet the only metal he’d ever been sensitive to was silver, in the main because he never had any of it; not a single tael. When he was a child, he was friends with the son of the blacksmith and iron was strewn around his workshop. Bolin wasn’t sensitive to it then, so what had changed? His life was growing deep veins of instability. What was he seeing through these yin-yang eyes? A man falling to his death? A ghost soldier? He whistled. Was he going mad?

  The beginning of the festivities was heralded by a long roll from the drummers on top of the Bell and Drum Tower. The whole fortress seemed to vibrate with power and strength.

  Dressed in colourful red, black and green silk robes, Dong led the monks out of the tunnel into the square. The crowd, about thirty deep, waved their hands in the traditional silent welcome. One day, when Bolin was three, he’d clapped with noisy enthusiasm at the New Year Festival, only to be reminded by his father that the way to show appreciation was to wave hands, not clap them. Behind the monks came the musicians, banging drums with bamboo sticks, blowing on flutes and strumming the lute with vigour and skill.

  Then along came the dragon. It wasn’t a real one. Bolin had never seen the actual Laolong, no, this was a ceremonial one made for the occasion. Amidst great noise and clamour, it meandered down the street in a cascade of motion and colour. Up and down, the dragon surged first this way, then that, miming the real beast’s subtle rhythmic undulations.

  Not everyone had such a sanguine view of the proceedings. Cui, for one, was nostalgic, “It’s such a shame,” he said.

  Bolin recognised the sadness in his words. “Why’s that?” he replied.

  “Before my time, in the days of the ancient Sung Dynasty,” Cui said, wagging his finger at him, “we could have seen the real Laolong, not some paper substitute on stilts.”

  Cui paused as it waltzed by them, supported on poles by scores of exuberant villagers. Their movements were sinuous and as fluid as the waves of the Bohai Sea. Despite Cui’s complaints, the celebrations freshened up the garrison, a feat enhanced by the loom of buds in the flowers and trees, and their promise of a coming spring.

  Cui wasn’t finished. “If you’ve really got these yin-yang eyes,” he said, “you would have been able to ‘see’ the great supernatural beast for yourself.”

  Bolin nodded. Of course, Cui was right. Even Bolin knew that ordinary folk, without the benefit of yin-yang eyes, couldn’t ‘see’ the Heavenly realms. But they could witness the dragon’s presence, as revealed by claps of thunder and forked lightning spearing into the earth. Along the length of the Great Wall, the Laolong would appear in all its savage power, protecting the Zhongguo and keeping the Mongol scourge at bay.

  And it put in a special display on New Year’s Eve. At least, it used to – until twenty years ago, when the Shanhaiguan fortress and the Laolongtou was built. Ever since then, the Laolong was conspicuous by its absence. The people grew disconsolate. To satisfy their craving, the Abbot conceived the idea of a facsimile dragon made of paper, lantern and cloth, held up by cavorting citizens, on wooden sticks and poles, with fireworks to replace the pyrotechnics.

  “That’s all we have now,” Bolin admitted with a touch of rue. Cui, evidently unimpressed, folded his arms and stared pensively at the ground.

  A burgeoning crowd around him, Dong halted the procession and stood on a podium on the square by the Bell and Drum Tower. “Welcome, everyone,” the Abbot cried. “I wish you all an auspicious New Year in this, the Year of the Dragon. Let the celebrations commence.”

  To tumultuous cheers, a dozen soldiers grabbed wicker torches from their cradles and kissed them against the piles of tinder on the bonfire in the centre of the square. In moments, the soothing warmth of the blaze suffused the gathering evening cold. The orange-gold flames licked the edge of the bonfire, lighting the night with a myriad of sparks. A dozen officers marched forward, holding aloft captured standards, showing the wolverine Mongol symbol, before throwing them onto the pyre with unabashed glee.

  As the red flames consumed the blue Mongol standards, the first fireworks spiralled into the sky, lighting the stars and the dark moon with slivers of fire. The rockets were Bolin’s favourite, shooting into the sky like magnificent comets. The brightness blinded him for a moment and he stumbled backwards. A man standing behind him grabbed his armpits, saying, “Watch out where you’re going, lad.”

  It was Park, the county magistrate, enjoying the festivities with his wife and son.

  “I’m sorry,” Bolin said, turning and bowing with reverence. “I… I didn’t mean to.”

  He held his breath. Laying a hand on an imperial official was a serious offence. Should he have wanted, Park could have brought Bolin up on a charge.

  Park replied, “It was an accident.” The magistrate smiled in that mild-mannered way of his. Bolin had known him all his life. Park had told him off as a youngster for stealing apples from his orchard and chastised him when he accidentally released a herd of camels into the market.

  The firecrackers shot into the moonless night sky, bursting into a cascade of noise and light. Bolin was fascinated by the whooshing sound of firework wheels, the crackle of the bonfire and the thunder of the rockets as they broke into a million pieces and eased down to earth like fiery raindrops.

  As the display ended, Cui grabbed him and said, “The major wants us again.” Cui pointed a thumb in the direction of the banqueting hall.

  “What have we done wrong now?” Bolin asked.

  “Let’s go and see,” Cui said.

  They found the major at the entrance to the banqueting hall. He was surrounded by runners, sending missives to – and receiving messages from – all and sundry. Even at this late hour, men were unloading food and drink from an array of wagons and carts that arrived and departed with bewildering regularity.

  The major called them over and said, “Bolin, you did well to alert the monks to the ghost. As a reward, I want you two to guard the entrance to tomorrow’s banquet.”

  “Yes, Major!” Bolin performed a brisk salute. This was a great honour, to stand guard at the prestigious New Year’s Day banquet. He was walking on air. Tomorrow, he would welcome the old soldiers, retired officers and local officials. What a change of fortune! So, the yin-yang eyes had brought him good karma after all.

  CHAPTER 4

  The Prince’s Banquet

  The winner becomes king.

  The loser becomes outlaw.

  POPULAR CHINESE SAYING

  On a cold, late-winter’s day, the sun rose with characteristic indolence. Like ancient foo dogs, he and Cui had stationed themselves on either side of the banqueting hall entrance. With two hours before the banquet, scores of waiters and runners bustled around the tables, laying out a sumptuous banquet. Hundreds of people milled around the entrance to lap up the excitement of the atmosphere and gawp at arriving dignitaries.

  No one was going to slip in unnoticed. During the morning, sedan chair after sedan chair disgorged very important persons, their wives and consorts. Bolin and Cui checked everyone’s identity tablets and invitation – Master Wen came first, then the Honourable Salt Commissioner, the Secretary to the Board of Works, the Minister for Roads, the military physician and so on. A scribe checked their names against the guest list and a steward ushered them to their seats.

&n
bsp; When some army officers from Cui’s old battalion passed by, Bolin noticed a nostalgic glint in his friend’s eye.

  “Do you wish you still marched with them?” he asked. “You know, living the soldier’s life.”

  “Not anymore,” Cui said. “For a young man, the campaigning life is attractive and exciting, but I soon learnt that it’s as stark and alluring as the sands of the Gobi Desert. No, at my age, I’m glad I’m out of it.”

  “When did you serve?” Bolin asked.

  “About forty-five summers ago,” Cui muttered, scratching his chin beard. “Back then, China creaked under the Mongol yoke. My village sat on the banks of the Yellow River, which suffered annual floods. During a great famine, our mothers and fathers ate grass and berries so that we children could eat. It makes me weep just to think about it. When the astrologers told us that Heaven had turned against the Mongol invaders, I joined the rebellion against them.”

  “Red bandannas,” Bolin said, adjusting his hair bun. “Wasn’t that what the rebels wore?”

  Cui grunted and said with a wry grin, “I kept mine, along with a few other trophies. My favourite is that red kite, you know, the one I always fly higher than yours.”

  “Hah! Now you’re boasting,” Bolin said with mock surprise. In fairness, Cui was an expert kite-flier and Bolin had learned much from practicing with him.

  The crowd was swelling by the moment to catch sight of their fief lord, who would always arrive last. In turn, that drew in a host of peddlers selling melon seeds, sweet pastries, dumplings and flasks of rice wine. Beggars and street urchins joined in, many still the worse for wear from the previous night’s feasting and revelry. Two rows of soldiers kept the entrance passages clear.

  Bolin could barely keep still. He kept walking over to Cui’s side of the entrance and asking him questions. “This is my first time at one of these. Who’s on the guest list?”

  “The community elders, mandarins and senior civil servants – the prince has to follow the New Year’s tradition,” Cui replied.

  Bolin scratched the fluff on his chin. “Why does the prince uphold some customs and ignore others?”

  “What do you mean?” Cui added a cautionary shake of the head. He must have known Bolin was going to say something controversial.

  “You know,” Bolin said, narrowing his eyes. “We’re taught to respect our parents, our fief lord and above all, the Emperor. But the Prince of Yan is his vassal. Not only that, they are closely related: the prince is the Emperor’s uncle. On both counts, this rebellion is against the precepts of Heaven. What would happen if we all ignored the customs of the land? Will we defy our parents, contravene the wishes of our ancestors, build houses in inappropriate places, choose unlucky days on which to travel, or to marry, or—?”

  “Stop!” Cui interrupted, eyes blazing. “Don’t you know in any feud, the winner becomes king, the loser becomes the outlaw?”

  “And that gives the prince the right to revolt against his own nephew?”

  “Actually, it does,” Cui nodded, as if that settled the argument. “If the prince wins the war, it will be because he has the power of Heaven on his side.”

  “Is that how it works?”

  “It’s called karma,” Cui scowled.

  “Karma works in mysterious ways,” Bolin said. When Cui didn’t reply, Bolin went back to his guard post.

  Last minute arrivals were ushered to their seats with due haste. Major Renshu strode right past him and Cui without so much as a ‘by your leave’. Next was Commandant Tung, looking proud as a peacock in his silk uniform. Bao, the assistant magistrate, sauntered in looking like a cat who’d found a dead mouse. The man was a piece of work. Bolin did not like him one bit. Accompanying him were two girls – twins – known as Black Orchid and White Orchid.

  One of the last to arrive in his silk-curtained sedan chair was Magistrate Park, honoured for his many years of loyal service to the province of Yan. Bolin bowed to the magistrate, who, with kind generosity, acknowledged his greeting, which was more than most of the other Yamen officials bothered to do.

  The magistrate donned his finest black silken robes of office and black hat, befitting his position as the prince’s guest of honour. On one arm was the Lady Lan, his wife, her phoenix fan aflutter and on the other, Feng, his young, ambitious son. No sooner had they taken their seats at the top table than a yellow-curtained sedan chair approached the hall.

  Carried by four burly porters dressed in golden robes and red turbans, and accompanied by dozens of attendants, was the Prince of Yan himself. Bolin and Cui stiffened their sinews in readiness and the crowd surged closer to their liege lord. Members of the brocade-clad Jinyiwei, the menacing Imperial secret police, patrolled the open space between prince and crowd.

  The two rows of soldiers wielded spear and halberd to herd the crowd onto one side of the prince’s sedan chair. The exception was a solitary beggar, who was squatting against the back wall and had somehow slipped through their cordon of steel. The porters deposited the prince’s chair near to the entrance. The prince remained behind silken curtains, despite receiving a rapturous welcome from the crowd.

  Bolin was even more surprised when the beggar waved in the direction of the prince. Bolin couldn’t see if the prince waved back.

  While everyone was trying to catch a glimpse of the prince, a member of the Jinyiwei in his embroidered uniform stood to attention by the open curtain of the sedan chair, presumably receiving princely instructions on the blind side of the crowd. The Jinyiwei sidled over to the beggar, a bearded fellow wearing a faded, tatty, black turban, where they exchanged a few words. The beggar fumbled in the folds of his grubby robe, pulled out a crimson envelope and gave it to the policeman with such care it was as if he was passing him the Dragon Pearl itself.

  The policeman hurried across and handed it to the prince. The curtains snapped shut. By the time Bolin looked back, the beggar had slunk back into the crowd.

  Why was the prince receiving an envelope from a beggar? Had the gods turned Heaven and earth upside down? Bolin shot a surreptitious glance at Cui, but his friend didn’t appear to have witnessed the mysterious incident.

  The porters carried the prince’s chair into the banquet hall. The musicians’ pipes, cymbals and drums announced the prince’s arrival with an elaborate flourish.

  Bolin and Cui turned their attention to the banqueting hall, where the servants dressed in red and yellow livery scuttled up and down, making the final adjustments to the tableware and seating. This was a noble gathering. The succulent odours of roast duck were making Bolin salivate and he found it hard to concentrate on his duties.

  The prince whispered in the magistrate’s ear and handed him the crimson envelope. Park tucked it in his inner sleeve and announced, “Ladies and gentlemen. Let us welcome Master Zhu Di, the venerable Prince of Yan and our own fief lord.”

  A thousand hands shot into the air and waved their appreciation of the prince, who waited until they stopped. He had a high forehead, broad cheekbones, a narrow, angular nose and a fine, tailored Asian Tojo moustache that drooped from his upper lips to his clavicle.

  “As I speak, I am the oldest living son of my deceased father, Zhu Yuanzhang, the great Hongwu Emperor,” the prince bellowed. “That is my principal claim to the Dragon Throne. My nephew’s advisers are corrupt and have led him away from the true path of the Tao. Everyone can see that the Mandate of Heaven slips from his grasp. The Lord of Heaven favours my armies and that is why I am winning this war. Five days ago, in the land of the Blue Wolf, I devastated a Mongol army loyal to my nephew. The Blue Wolf is running away with its tail between its legs.”

  Everyone waved in approval of the prince’s rhetoric, which disguised the underlying sense of shock – no, it was more like abject humiliation – that an Emperor of China would ever again trust the Mongols. Had the Jianwen Emperor forgotten the damage the Yuan Dynasty
had caused during their despicable tenure?

  The prince had more to say. “My father founded the Ming Dynasty. Like a dutiful son, I shall follow in his footsteps. I shall wait for divine acknowledgement to take the Mandate of Heaven. I will demonstrate to you that I hold the true claim to the Dragon Throne.”

  Bolin wondered how he was going to achieve that. He imagined everyone else did, too. The answer was forthcoming. “The Laolong – the Old Dragon itself – will do my bidding. That will prove that Heaven supports me and not my nephew.”

  A murmur of hope ran through the banqueting hall. The waiters, the runners, the stewards and the porters stopped what they were doing. The prince had made a powerful statement. Only the Dragon Master could summon the Laolong, as long as he possessed the fabled Dragon Pearl. The trouble was, the last Dragon Master, the mighty Lord Wing, had gone missing twenty years ago and had not been seen or heard of since: nor had the Laolong. The prince’s words were more than a promise; they were tantamount to a bold claim to have the ear of the Lord of Heaven.

  The prince’s speech reached a crescendo. “I will not rest until I find the Dragon Pearl and its custodian. If that is Wing, I shall find him. If Wing is in Heaven and another holds the reins of the Laolong, I shall find that man. Either way, when the Laolong is summoned, it will appear in its serpentine glory and will serve me, the future Emperor of China. That is why I can pledge good harvests, no floods and no droughts. Then you will know that I am the true custodian of the Mandate of Heaven.”

  The banqueting guests were ecstatic at this remarkable promise. Bolin’s heart was racing, “I’ll even get to see the Laolong,” he murmured to his friend.

  “With your yin-yang eyes, you might be one of the fortunate ones,” his friend quipped.

  “Let the feast begin,” Park announced and scores of waiters swarmed into the hall to serve the first course.

  Magistrate Park sat down as the servant leaned over and served him a plate of roast duck in an orange sauce. The magistrate spoke with deep respect to the prince, though Bolin couldn’t hear a word for the clatter of plates and porcelain dishes. As Park swallowed the first mouthful, the servant snatched away his plate from right in front of him.