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  As she approached, an old woman wearing a head scarf and a long, billowy gown was handing out willow branches to the departing soldiers. It was Granny Dandan, who, together with her daughter, Precious, served at the magistrate’s house. Ru stared open-mouthed at her antics.

  “A willow branch for a safe journey. It’s a tradition,” she croaked.

  Ru didn’t respond. He wasn’t deliberately difficult, although Luli supposed that was a distinct possibility. Older folk knew what had befallen him all those years ago.

  “You’re a good boy,” Granny said, tousling his hair. “Here, you take one and give it to a soldier.”

  Ru reddened in the face and glanced at her. Luli smiled, saying, “Go on, Ru. Be brave.” And he was. He gave one to a soldier with a heavy limp and a breath like a brewery.

  “Thank you, lad,” the soldier muttered and went on his way.

  The boy smiled at her, evidently pleased with himself. In truth, he was not a boy anymore; he was taller and stronger by far than she. He had seen nearly five and twenty summers and most of them passed him by like wind against a high mountain ridge.

  “I’m here with you… right now,” she said, repeating the mantra by which she reassured him of her presence.

  He glanced at her with those uneasy, dancing eyes and shook his head. He knew that she was sad. He didn’t like that, no, he didn’t like that at all.

  “I’m not…” she objected and stopped mid-sentence. There was no point hiding it. The cloak of sadness was an ill fit on her. She’d grown accustomed to wearing it, ever since that unconscionable day of reckoning some twenty summers before. Ru jutted out his chin. That meant he wanted to know where they were going.

  “To the market. Remember, for food and firewood?”

  At least he could read her lips. Ru grunted an acknowledgement. Despite the early time of day, the crowds swirled around the stalls like fish in a shoal – merchants, guards, villagers, farmers, artisans, scholars, scribes and Yamen officials on their way to work. Ru clung to her like sticky rice. Up ahead, with the rising sun low in the sky, part of the market nestled beneath the shadow cast by the stoic facade of the Great Wall. As they moved from the sunny side into the shadow, Ru halted, stamped his foot and screamed.

  “Nooo!”

  In a flash, she realised what she’d done. “Oh, Ru,” she said hastily. “I’m so sorry. How could I forget?”

  Ru wiped an errant tear away with his sleeve. His face had gone from a brilliant sun to a shadowy moon in the time it took a sparrow to alight from a bough. A woman passing by stopped to comfort Ru, saying, “Is everything all right?” It was Zetian, Bolin’s mother.

  Of course, it wasn’t. How could it be? The boy – well, the man – was still suffering from the trauma of witnessing his father’s tragic fall. The shock had broken his little heart, retarded his natural development and stemmed his tongue. From that day on, all he could say was his name, ‘yes’, ‘no’ and a gaggle of incoherent sounds.

  “There, there,” Zetian said, laying a comforting hand on Ru’s shoulder. “It’s the shadow again, isn’t it?”

  Luli nodded. Whenever Ru stepped into the shadow of the wall, it reminded him of the incident and he froze. His lips turned blue. His shoulders drooped. She pulled Ru out of range of the wall’s shadow and whispered in his ear, “I’m here with you… right now.”

  “To this day,” Luli added, “I wonder how we must have upset our ancestors for such misfortune to visit my poor family.”

  “You must be strong,” Zetian said with a thin smile. “It’s karma. It has taken away from you and Ru. In the end, it must yield to your prayers and continued suffering and balance your loss. It will give you something back, you’ll see.”

  “I hope so and thank you for your kind wishes,” she replied. What a good friend.

  When he had calmed down, she said to Zetian, “I was coming to your husband’s fish stall and forgot that it backs onto the Great Wall. I-I am so angry with myself.”

  “Don’t be. Look, Ru will be fine,” Zetian said, with a glowing smile that lit up the dullest of winter days. “Stay here and I’ll fetch some for you – and Ru.”

  “That’s so kind,” Luli said, with a bow of reverence. As Zetian disappeared into the long shadow, Luli dried Ru’s tears. His body quaked. She held him close. One day, she prayed, he would overcome the shock of his father’s death. But not today.

  Zetian returned, accompanied by the smell of fish. “Here,” she said. “It’s not much. Please, have these.”

  “Let me pay you,” Luli said. “I’ve never yet seen a rich fisherman.”

  “True enough,” Zetian replied. She had narrow eyes and broad forehead, her hair tied into a bow at the top of her head, like most working women. Bolin had inherited his good looks from her. “By the same token, I’ve yet to see someone grow rich from the Po Office business.”

  Two bronze cash was all she had. She pressed it into Zetian’s hand.

  “Come on Ru, let’s find some firewood then go home and cook these,” she said.

  “Bye bye, Ru,” Zetian said. Ru didn’t wave back. His bottom lip was trembling.

  Luli was at her wits’ end. After Heng, his father, had died so tragically, Ru had stopped growing up; not physically, but mentally and emotionally. That day had changed Ru’s life and hers too. Eligible men avoided her, afraid the same fate as Heng would befall them. Marriage offers were as sparse as winter flowers. She had pored over books of potions and spells, in the so-far vain search for the one that would loosen the dreadful bindings wrapped tight around her son. If only he could step out of its shadow and into the light. That would make her happy beyond all else.

  CHAPTER 8

  The White Mulberry Inn and Wine Shop

  Power can be as hot as flame.

  It burns people’s fingers.

  Be wary of the magistrate.

  Watch for his frown.

  A SONG OF FAIR WOMEN

  The Laolongtou was somewhere over there, a pier jutting into the cold Bohai Sea. It was concealed by the southern fortress wall so Bolin couldn’t see it. But just thinking about the place made his temples throb. He felt grateful he wasn’t posted to work there. Today he was on duty in the large square in the shadow of the Bell and Drum Tower, surrounded by hundreds of other conscripts rushing into line. Cui stood beside him, as calm as a sheep on the ridges of the Yanshan. How did he do it? When those around him were panicking, his friend had this uncanny ability of staying quiet, like he and he alone occupied the eye of the storm and walked the tightrope of the Tao.

  Behind him stood the monumental Bell and Drum Tower, an edifice of yang strength and power, the beating heart of the Shanhaiguan Fortress. From its roof, the general orders were issued: different drum rolls for different messages, the more frenetic, the more alarm. Today was a rhythmic beating that stung the air, as the twenty drummers beat the leather in perfect synchrony.

  A cold dawn hung over the fortress, as a sparkle of frost glittered like so many pieces of jewellery bestowed by the gods. The ripples of sound from the drums eased away, sending a faint echo into the mountain ridges.

  On the second storey of the tower, the Percussion Master smashed his mallet against the huge nipple gong, sending out metallic waves of sound across the roofs of the houses and barracks, over the wall, up the mountains, rising high up into the frozen wastes of Heaven from where the gods awoke from their slumber and crooked their necks to see what the matter was on earth.

  A fraught silence descended on the assembled troops. Bolin stamped his feet to keep them from freezing. The commandant stalked the open ground in front of him like a mountain lion.

  “While we still mourn for Magistrate Park, we can bring those responsible for his terrible death to brook.” Tung’s voice was gruff and stern. “Shun was sent here by the Emperor but was not acting alone. The prince wants his co-con
spirators found and brought to justice. Search the pagodas, the watchtowers, the temples, the inns, the drinking houses, the market, the supply depots, even Beggar Alley and the latrines. Men do not just disappear. They are hiding somewhere. Arrest anyone without a proper identity tablet around their necks. I want them found today, not tomorrow. Thousand Cuts will relieve them of their confessions. I want to see them beaten and bruised, with a cangue hanging from their necks, ready to be tried by the new magistrate when he arrives. Is… that… clear?”

  Everyone bowed their head and murmured a soft but powerful agreement.

  “Good. Then go to it,” Tung snarled.

  Bolin was with Cui and three other soldiers. Their task was to search the area around the market, starting with the White Mulberry Inn and Wine Shop, frequented by off-duty soldiers looking for an exciting time. Cui sent one man to cover the back door and led the rest of them through the front.

  A single lantern in the corner sent out flickering shadows into the room. Other than the rough-hewn tables and rickety chairs and the smell of stale wine and urine, the inn was as empty as it was gloomy. A man was sweeping the floor with difficulty, gripping the broom with one hand. His other hand had been severed at the wrist.

  “Master Zhou,” Cui said, addressing him by his official title. Most people called him One Hand. The rumour was that he had been a young fire fighter. Caught stealing jewels from a burnt-out house, he’d suffered dismemberment in the punishment yard and then exile. Apart from the obvious, no one was quite sure about much else where One Hand was concerned.

  “Early for a drink. Even for you,” Zhou said, a mischievous glint in his eye.

  Cui cussed and shook his head. “Not today. We’re searching for the accomplices in the magistrate’s murder.”

  “Terrible thing,” Zhou said, downing a slug of wine and belching. “What’s the world coming to when a magistrate can’t have a bite to eat without choking to death?” Zhou then playfully throttled himself with his one good hand.

  “Mind your tongue,” Cui scolded him. “Tell me, you seen anyone new hanging around these parts?”

  “Hah!” One Hand chortled. “You know, in my line of work, I don’t ask many questions. Gets you into trouble. And Ol’ One Hand don’t want no trouble.”

  “Glad to hear it,” Cui grunted. “Then show me your register of guests.”

  “Register of guests?” One Hand replied, with a look of feigned incredulity.

  “Yes, you’re obliged by the Office of Alien Affairs to register any non-Han Chinese guests – that means Mongols, Tartars, Jurchins, Koreans, all barbarians. Or have you conveniently forgotten?”

  “Well,” One Hand said. “I’ve no guests at the moment.”

  “Don’t believe you,” Cui snarled. Then, pointing to the stairs, he ordered the soldiers, “Up there. Search every room!”

  One Hand barred their passage, insisting with all the charm he could muster, which wasn’t much between yellow teeth and rotten gums, “You don’t want to go up there.”

  “Out of the way,” Cui shoved him aside and raced up the stairs. The first floor consisted of bedrooms either side of a corridor. Bolin worked one side, Cui the other.

  One Hand was on their backs, complaining bitterly, “I tell you, leave things be. Stop there.”

  Who was he hiding? Bolin wondered.

  All the rooms were unoccupied, until they arrived at the door at the end of the corridor. Bolin could hear voices inside: a man talking in salacious tones and a woman giggling. Another woman cried out in pain.

  “I told you already,” One Hand said, “leave it alone.”

  Someone important was occupying that room.

  Cui thrust open the door. Two girls lay in various degrees of undress on top of the bed with a man. The girls pulled the bedclothes up to their necks to conceal their modesty. The man was none other than the venerable acting magistrate, and cocksure to boot.

  Naked as the day he was born and clearly proud of it, Bao railed at them, “What’s the meaning of this?”

  “I tried to warn him but he wouldn’t listen,” One Hand insisted, bursting into the room.

  “You’re useless,” Bao scowled at One Hand. Then he barked at the girls, “You two, get dressed and get out of here.” Like blushing brides, Black Orchid and White Orchid took half the bedclothes with them. As they disappeared behind a modesty screen replete with phoenix motifs, Bolin noticed black and blue bruises on their backs and around their necks.

  Cui stood up tall and said, “We’re following the prince’s orders, which is more than I can say for you.”

  By criticising a Yamen official, Cui had broken social etiquette and Bolin squirmed for his friend. Bao leapt from the bed and stood in the middle of the room, marshalling both his authority and his manhood, which hung from his loins like a long, flabby pipe.

  “Dog’s head! How dare you hold my actions to account? Who do you think you are? You’re not worthy to eat my faeces. You are a pimple on the face of the gods.” Bao was purple with rage.

  Faced by this verbal assault, Cui took an involuntary step backwards and made an obsequious apology.

  “I’m so sorry, I don’t know what I was thinking…” he said, bowing and grovelling, as well he might. Did he have a death wish, challenging a senior official like that?

  Bao’s eyes were ablaze. “Watch your tongue or I’ll have it out!” he yelled, spraying spittle into Cui’s face.

  Humbled by Bao’s angry rebuke, Cui turned, stumbled and fell backwards, knocking over a soldier behind him, like skittles in a row. Standing nearby, Bolin had his legs whipped from under him and took a tumble. He thrust his hands out but instead of preventing his fall, he pushed Bao over and landed on top of him.

  For what seemed like an eternity, Bolin lay on top of the naked Bao, struggling with all his might to remove himself not only from the room but from the inn, from Shanhaiguan and, as time and embarrassment progressed, from the earth itself.

  “Get. Off. Me!” Bao yelled, pushing and shoving him.

  By the time Bolin managed to extricate himself, his face was flushed red. He lay staring at the Orchid sisters, who by now had all their clothes on and were milking the soldiers’ undivided attention. Fluttering fans and eyelids, they danced past gawping admirers. Bolin looked for the marks on their necks he had seen earlier, but both now wore chokers. As the girls departed, Bao’s page slipped into the room. He helped his master dress and Bao exited with haste, leaving curses and disgust behind him.

  Bolin still lay on the floor, vaguely aware of what was happening around him. Near him was a length of rope. As soon as he grasped it in his hand, images struck his mind with the force of a hurricane. He was battered with vivid pictures of a bedroom, dimly lit, lattice shut. A man in the black robes and cap of a scholar had his back turned to him. The scholar was standing next to a girl, who was tied on the bed. Her skin, like milky porcelain, had that dull sheen of perspiration. A trickle of crimson blood ran down her abdomen from the nipple on her pert alabaster breast. Except for the rope around her hands, feet and neck, she was naked, unless rope counted as clothing. Her modesty lay for all to see between wide open legs. She was foaming at the mouth and her facial colour was an unctuous shade of purple.

  She gasped, though it was more like a gargled croak. At least the china beauty was still alive. But for how much longer? The scholar wiped a trace of saliva from her chin then, as calm as you like, tightened the noose around her neck another notch. She let out a strangled gasp, then a prolonged sigh. Bolin wanted to cradle her in his arms, save her from this despicable man. There was a noise. He drifted upwards from the deep recesses of his mind. Someone was shaking him by the shoulders and calling his name.

  The dream vision returned, stronger than ever, demanding attention. The scholar was naked, his manhood erect. The girl’s body lay limp on the bed, her head slumped, the noose tau
t. As the man prepared to mount her, he turned to face Bolin. His lips curled into a snarl. His eyes – alive with lust – seared into the caverns of his soul.

  It was Bao.

  Spluttering and coughing, Bolin sat up, trying to shake the horrible dream from his fevered mind. The last image before he awoke was of a modesty screen covered in phoenix motifs. Then he knew. This was the room in which the assault he had just witnessed had taken place.

  “You’ve come back,” Cui said.

  “Argh,” was the best he could muster.

  “You all right? You’ve been murmuring to yourself,” Cui said, offering him a helping hand.

  “Have I? Yes, I suppose I have. Thanks,” he replied. He reached out his hand to Cui’s, only to realise that he was still clutching the length of rope.

  “Where did you find that?” Cui asked.

  “I don’t know.”

  “Here, give it to me,” Cui said, taking the rope and examining it.

  As soon as Bolin let go of the rope, the images ceased. It was unbelievable – the rope was infused with evil foreboding. When he touched it, he saw horrific pictures in his mind’s eye. He was frightened. Not by the rope but by this new-found ability, these yin-yang eyes. They’d helped him before. But not this time. What else would he ‘see’? Did he have to be careful what he touched now?

  He shoved his hands in his sleeves. If he confided again in Cui, his friend would scoff at him.

  Bolin had to find some relief, talk to someone. Otherwise he would go mad.

  CHAPTER 9

  The White Flag of Mourning

  O for a sight of the plain white dress.

  How my heart would feel for the fatherless.

  And my heart would cling to youth forlorn.

  Aye, and as one with him, would mourn!

  THE SHI KING (BOOK OF ODES)

  Feng moved his brush-pen smoothly across the paper, making each character as distinct as a solitary cloud against a clear blue sky. This was his finest calligraphy and he was well pleased with it. He dabbed the brush on the ink slab and started the next stroke.