The Mandate of Heaven (52 page)

Onwards, climbing into foothills that would become mountain trails all too soon. There, the old man at the front ordered a halt, using wordless gestures and grunts to instruct the porters to form semi-circular rings round a waterfall, propped up on their forked sticks.

The cliff was covered with lichen and ferns. The old man ladled water into the wooden bowl chained to each man’s waist. They watched hungrily as he struggled to light a fire and boiled millet in a blackened iron bowl. He served them one by one, muttering to himself. At Teng he hesitated, ignoring the proffered bowl. The old man eagerly bolted down Teng’s ration.

So that was the way of it. Instructions concerning the gentleman scholar had been issued. Teng knew how short a distance he was expected to travel – and how very far, the farthest a living thing may go, into eternity. Tears clouded his vision. Already he felt half-invisible.

At dawn he stumbled on like the rest, using the forked stick for balance as the path climbed round huge, squat boulders, up towards a distant pass. They were one and a half days from the Salt Pans now. At noon their guide ordered a halt and the mules propped themselves upright, snatching a little exhausted sleep. Teng’s was dark and deep. Perhaps that was why he did not wake when the rest of the caravan set off, opening his eyes to find the last man a
li
ahead. Yet Teng was not alone. Their thin, starved guide had stayed behind. For long moments the old man scratched his lice, mumbling incoherently.

‘Have you been ordered to kill me?’ asked Teng.

The old man did not reply. Perhaps he was simple and could not understand.

‘That would not be hard,’ said Teng, ‘I am helpless enough. But I have wealthy friends who will reward you if you set me free from this salt block.’

It seemed the old man might be considering his offer, for his leathery, lined face was puckered as if in thought. Then, with a sudden cry, he lunged forward and snatched Teng’s forked stick. Teng reached out to retrieve it, almost toppling. Flailing, he balanced just in time. The old man backed away and Teng understood.

‘No!’ he cried. ‘Do not kill me that way! Do it quickly, if you must!’

But the old man was hurrying up the path after the salt caravan, Teng’s stick in his hands, glancing back occasionally to see if he was pursued. And so he was, for a while.

Finally Teng gave up. He was marooned as effectively as any shipwrecked sailor cast upon a spit of sand exposed to the tide.

It took half a day. At first he struggled back the way he had come, hoping to reach the waterfall that had slaked their thirst last night. The way was so slippery, the angle of the path so steep in places that he made agonising progress without the aid of a prop. Many times he swayed back and forth, certain the end had arrived. Each time he steadied and advanced a little further …

What were a man’s legs but stilts carrying his soul? What his arms but branches sprouting greedy twigs? What his lungs but bellows sucking in air, then discharging it into a sky utterly indifferent? What was a man’s back, the same spine that grew from jelly in his mother’s womb to rings of hard, cushioned bone? Oh, one might feel proud of one’s precious spine. So strong! So flexible! Until it weakened – slither of foot on ground, uncertain, tottering steps, frailty never imagined when a boy green and growing … Until legs and arms and lungs and spine declared themselves spent.

A moment of sorrowful fear! To wobble at the centre of the Eight Directions. He might fall this way or that. Face forward with the salt block pressing his nose into the damp earth, filling his nostrils with peaty earth-tangs, grave reeks. Or he could fall backward, arching to land on the salt block, rest on the salt block like a grave slab, helpless as a beetle or a tortoise on its back, waving futile limbs. At least, facing up, stars and wheeling birds might be glimpsed.

Perhaps that was why Teng toppled back rather than forward. Because of the stars …

For hours he struggled to rise. Oh, he was the last of the Dengs! If he did not have sons … Every combination of arms and legs pushing in unison had no effect. He tried rolling onto his side for a better purchase. No success. Then he lay panting, staring up at the sky. Dusk soon. Darkness would follow. He prayed for a clear night. Never before had the patterns of swirling clouds seemed so beautiful or precious, even when rain tumbled down at him like tiny beads of glass melting on his cracked lips and tongue …

As he lay, eagerly drinking in the patterns of the constellations, their divine shapes and brightness, Teng found himself mouthing half-forgotten words … Father’s favourite, composed by the Emperor Wu:

Autumn wind rises,
Plump clouds burn,
Pine, bamboo and plum tree wither,
Geese fly south and north.

When he finished, a shudder passed through Teng’s exhausted body. Feebly his bowels discharged what little they possessed. He felt giddy; the constant ache in his body numb. Relief crept over tortured limbs like fresh, water-scented mist.

With it came awareness of dawn’s possibilities in the changing light. Was that a long-necked goose skimming at the edge of his vision? In his mind he urged it to fly across Six-hundred-
li
Lake to Monkey Hat Hill.

The folly of his numerous unhappinesses struck Teng like a kind of wonder. How foolish to have been so unhappy! For all his learning, he had understood nothing. Nothing of value. Now his studies approached their end. Here, unexpectedly, was the examination he had prepared for since boyhood. Not the Emperor’s test of worthiness for high office as Deng Nan-shi had hoped. Not some test to determine one’s fitness to be granted the Mandate of Heaven, in however petty a capacity, as official or judge.

Hard to learn so much so late. That all he cared for now was not the name of Deng, or a moment’s fame, or wealth, or the praise of strangers. He longed for the touch of his mother’s hand and Father’s ambiguous presence, looking between him and Hsiung as they played in the overgrown courtyard.

And there was another discovery: deeper than all others. He longed to touch Yun Shu’s hands, defying every decorum or restraint, and use his own to bring himself close to her so their lips brushed. Gently at first, then with urgency. How sick he had grown of propriety! Sick of misconceived denials! Of all the regrets in his life she seemed the greatest.

Teng’s thoughts fell away into dark places where memory and speculation sweated feverishly.

The Noble Count of Lingling paced the mud and shingle beach, seemingly oblivious to rain slanting from a warm, overcast sky. It was dusk; dull fires glowed to the west. The sun sank behind distant mountains, barely discernible in the murky air. His heavy boots left patterns in the mud. Servants with umbrellas hovered a little way off, ready to shelter him, but he waved them away. Perhaps the rain would clear his intentions.

These were best expressed by a fleet of eighty junks and warships at anchor near the small island where he had landed to get a little solid earth beneath his feet. This fleet, carrying over three thousand of his best troops, all veterans of harsh encounters with the Mongols, was a like a quiver of arrows waiting to be loosed. And his target, the Salt Pans, lay only a few hours to the south.

Hsiung’s lips tightened as he imagined their attack. The monsoon was gradually raising the water level of the lake, as it did every year between spring and autumn. High waters meant increased manoeuvrability for his ships. A perfect time to assault the Salt Pans, protected as they were in winter and autumn by a maze of small islands and treacherous shallows.

Even now, after months of reports that the Mongols were withdrawing, leaving only a skeleton garrison, Hsiung grappled with familiar doubts. Perhaps Chancellor Liu Shui was to blame for his uncomfortable feelings. From the outset, the fat man had questioned every scattered piece of intelligence, always smiling his Buddha-like smile as he advised caution and delay.

It had been the spymasters, Chao and Hua, who were most bellicose. As he walked back and forth across the sticky, squelching mud their voices echoed in his mind: ‘Noble Count! We are assured by your servants in Chenglingji, the noble Zhong clan, that now is the time of the Salt Pans’ greatest weakness. We must not squander it, Your Highness!’

Liu Shui, still smiling, had shaken his head slightly and Hsiung had sensed different counsel would prevail. Ever since his old friend and adviser had found him weeping and distraught in the Buddha’s caverns, cradling him in his arms until tears diminished into silence, he had possessed an unspoken power over Hsiung.

‘Noble Count,’ the fat man said, once Chao and Hua finished, ‘I advise the following bold actions. First, that you deploy only a third of your forces when you attack the Salt Pans.’

‘Sire!’ broke in Chao. ‘Is that wise? A total victory would secure mastery of Six-hundred-
li
Lake forever! Let every soldier be deployed.’

‘Ahem,’ replied Liu Shui, ‘a most interesting observation, but foolish. If nothing else, defeating one small force will not secure mastery of a large province – and certainly not
forever
, as Master Chao suggests. I counsel leaving the bulk of your forces in reserve. If the Mongols have stripped their garrison bare, as the Honoured Spymasters believe, a few thousand will be more than adequate.’

‘I shall consider it,’ said Hsiung, gloomily. His mood was often subdued since the Buddha’s caves.

When the audience was over and they sat alone over tea, Liu Shui had sighed. ‘Will you follow my advice, Noble Count?’

‘Yes,’ said Hsiung, ‘it is sensible. Three thousand picked men should easily crush a garrison a third that number. More would simply create problems in ferrying and feeding them.’

Liu Shui had nodded thoughtfully. ‘Will you follow this counsel as well? Let Chao and Hua stay with me until your attack is successful. Above all, tell no one of the date you intend to sail. Not even your concubine.’

This had been a harder concession. Ying-ge was all the pleasure he took from a grey world.

‘Very well,’ he said.

‘And one final thing, Your Highness,’ said Liu Shui, his eyes flashing. ‘May a new servant of mine accompany your entourage? His name is Shensi and I have instructed him to locate a certain slave in the Salt Pans … assuming the poor fellow still lives. For I have learned it is by no means likely Deng Teng perished when his ancestral home burned to the ground.’

At this Hsiung gasped. ‘Then he is suffering as I did! A slave in the Salt Pans! Of course this Shensi must seek out Teng. Of course!’

So exciting had been this news that Hsiung could not help sharing it with Ying-ge, reminding her how she had won his heart by comforting him when he was grieving for an old friend. ‘Well, it seems he may not be dead after all and that I may have the power to save him!’

Naturally, he had resisted her curious exclamations and questions for a little while. Had he not promised to reveal nothing? But Ying-ge was an exception. He hated to disappoint her. Never before had a lady, and so captivating a lady at that, cared for him deeply, with no advantage to herself – for she often longed to return to Hou-ming where her family dwelt. It was a notable sacrifice on her part, a proof of love that she condescended to remain in a dull hole like Lingling …

Those conversations had taken place weeks before. Now Hsiung ceased pacing on the muddy shore and turned to his servants.

‘Order the senior officers to assemble on my ship in an hour,’ he commanded.

After the conference where the plan of battle was agreed, he lay on a narrow cot, awaiting dawn.

It was odd to feel afraid. Not that he feared a stray blow or arrow might end all he had won, Hsiung derided such threats, even welcomed them in a way he could not explain. No, it was a Salt Pans long gone that frightened him, as an adult recalls his childish terror of bogeymen like Big Voice Yang or shadows on a wall at night. A Salt Pans where demons wore human forms, their faces contorted with a cruelty he had found unimaginable after the kindness and urbanity of his boyhood in Deng Mansions. Foremost among those demons was Overseer Pi-tou, his pock-marked features smiling as he raised the whip, smiling when angry, always angry, even when he dragged Hsiung into the deep ditch where the abandoned brine hole bubbled like a foul well and he had been ordered to remove his clothes and kneel. A repulsion akin to nausea gripped Hsiung and he rose from his cot, startling the bodyguard outside.

Returning to his blankets, the Noble Count curled like a dry leaf, hugging himself. All that was gone! Perhaps it never really happened. Yet as he repeated that old mantra of denial a realisation grew, one so simple it amazed him he had never glimpsed it before. There had been no dark lights until Overseer Pi-tou. Pi-tou was their monstrous father. Then Hsiung remembered the tortured faces of the sinners in hell and sensed the possibility of a terrible revenge.

He fell into an uneasy slumber. It was fortunate that, when he woke, he could recall nothing of his dreams – or what he did in them – except a vague, uneasy excitement.