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Authors: Tim Murgatroyd
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would sink in the snow.’
‘Ride on one of the camels like me. Have the litter follow behind. That way, we shall reach the city in time for the festival.’
He belched.
‘No wonder your father is called a hero,’ he said, wonderingly. ‘You’ll end up a general for sure!’
But he did as I advised, and as a result we reached the capital in time for the Feast of Lanterns. Cousin Hong never forgot this episode and afterwards nicknamed me
‘Little General’. It was good that I had one friend in Uncle Ming’s house, even an unsteady one. I had need of any friend.
We caught our first glimpse of the capital as night was falling. Here I must win honour and esteem or scuttle back to the mountains, a failure in my own and Father’s eyes. Cousin Hong had driven the servants forward all day with promises and threats. For several li the sky to the east glowed, as though from a great fire. When I remarked on it, Hong chuckled.
‘Wait and see!’ he cried. ‘Just you wait, Little General!’
We were in a low valley full of roadside tombs, then the City of Heaven spread before us.
It seemed ablaze, but not consumed. Small flashes, like distant lightning, sparked across the horizon. A low rumbling filled the air.
We descended the hillside in haste and found ourselves beside a jetty on the shore of the West Lake. Miles of water glittered in the moonlight, covered with boats of every size, like fireflies scattered across a grey mirror. Each bore a lantern, some many, so they were beaded with strings of light. Cousin Hong leapt from his camel and rushed to the shore. By chance a fishing skiff was moored there, rocking alarmingly. Inside a couple were disporting themselves.
‘Hey you!’ he cried, apparently blind to what was going on. ‘Hey you! Take us to the city and you’ll earn three hundred cash .’
The young fisherman and his wife (assuming they were married, a large assumption at festival-time) fumbled with their clothes. Unabashed, Cousin Hong jangled three strings of cash coins, feverishly repeating his offer. He was a man possessed by demons. I believe he would have traded half his inheritance to enjoy the festival. Within a minute the bargain was settled. The fisherman stood by the large oar at the rear of his craft and we scrambled aboard. His ‘wife’ stood disconsolate on the shore. It was my first lesson that anything was for sale in the City of Heaven. Now Cousin Hong lolled like an emperor in the prow and I was left to gaze.
We passed dragon ships poled by men drunk and singing. Everyone tipsy and gay. Fast boats propelled by paddle-wheels formed a wake of moon-lit foam. Others were floating restaurants, crammed with talking, eating, laughing people, young and old, silk robes catching the light, hard faces softened by lamp-glow. We passed the decorous craft of nobles and outrageous barges full of coarse singing girls, enticing any who would hop aboard into curtained booths.
Cousin Hong triumphantly pointed out places of interest on the shore. Here, the Monastery of the Miraculous Mushroom where a junk was moored. He told me it was never launched because each time it set sail a storm followed. There, the famed pagoda on Thunder Point, an octagonal tower built entirely of blue-glazed bricks. It glittered that night like a barbarian’s savage blue eyes. Huge statues of the Buddha carved into cliffs. Stands of willow or bamboo where parties could be glimpsed, dancing or revelling. Cousin Hong roared out coarse greetings to strangers as we passed.
In the midst of this uproar, one grey-bearded old man sat patient as a heron on the shore, fishing rod in hand.
At last we reached the Eastern Shore and disembarked.
By now I was terrified and elated. Cousin Hong fell to his knees and kissed a handful of dirt. He summoned a wine seller, and bought a large jar, which he drank in one, wine dribbling down his chin. Passers-by applauded and cheered.
His belch, when he finished, was like a
‘Ride on one of the camels like me. Have the litter follow behind. That way, we shall reach the city in time for the festival.’
He belched.
‘No wonder your father is called a hero,’ he said, wonderingly. ‘You’ll end up a general for sure!’
But he did as I advised, and as a result we reached the capital in time for the Feast of Lanterns. Cousin Hong never forgot this episode and afterwards nicknamed me
‘Little General’. It was good that I had one friend in Uncle Ming’s house, even an unsteady one. I had need of any friend.
We caught our first glimpse of the capital as night was falling. Here I must win honour and esteem or scuttle back to the mountains, a failure in my own and Father’s eyes. Cousin Hong had driven the servants forward all day with promises and threats. For several li the sky to the east glowed, as though from a great fire. When I remarked on it, Hong chuckled.
‘Wait and see!’ he cried. ‘Just you wait, Little General!’
We were in a low valley full of roadside tombs, then the City of Heaven spread before us.
It seemed ablaze, but not consumed. Small flashes, like distant lightning, sparked across the horizon. A low rumbling filled the air.
We descended the hillside in haste and found ourselves beside a jetty on the shore of the West Lake. Miles of water glittered in the moonlight, covered with boats of every size, like fireflies scattered across a grey mirror. Each bore a lantern, some many, so they were beaded with strings of light. Cousin Hong leapt from his camel and rushed to the shore. By chance a fishing skiff was moored there, rocking alarmingly. Inside a couple were disporting themselves.
‘Hey you!’ he cried, apparently blind to what was going on. ‘Hey you! Take us to the city and you’ll earn three hundred cash .’
The young fisherman and his wife (assuming they were married, a large assumption at festival-time) fumbled with their clothes. Unabashed, Cousin Hong jangled three strings of cash coins, feverishly repeating his offer. He was a man possessed by demons. I believe he would have traded half his inheritance to enjoy the festival. Within a minute the bargain was settled. The fisherman stood by the large oar at the rear of his craft and we scrambled aboard. His ‘wife’ stood disconsolate on the shore. It was my first lesson that anything was for sale in the City of Heaven. Now Cousin Hong lolled like an emperor in the prow and I was left to gaze.
We passed dragon ships poled by men drunk and singing. Everyone tipsy and gay. Fast boats propelled by paddle-wheels formed a wake of moon-lit foam. Others were floating restaurants, crammed with talking, eating, laughing people, young and old, silk robes catching the light, hard faces softened by lamp-glow. We passed the decorous craft of nobles and outrageous barges full of coarse singing girls, enticing any who would hop aboard into curtained booths.
Cousin Hong triumphantly pointed out places of interest on the shore. Here, the Monastery of the Miraculous Mushroom where a junk was moored. He told me it was never launched because each time it set sail a storm followed. There, the famed pagoda on Thunder Point, an octagonal tower built entirely of blue-glazed bricks. It glittered that night like a barbarian’s savage blue eyes. Huge statues of the Buddha carved into cliffs. Stands of willow or bamboo where parties could be glimpsed, dancing or revelling. Cousin Hong roared out coarse greetings to strangers as we passed.
In the midst of this uproar, one grey-bearded old man sat patient as a heron on the shore, fishing rod in hand.
At last we reached the Eastern Shore and disembarked.
By now I was terrified and elated. Cousin Hong fell to his knees and kissed a handful of dirt. He summoned a wine seller, and bought a large jar, which he drank in one, wine dribbling down his chin. Passers-by applauded and cheered.
His belch, when he finished, was like a
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