Read Online Taming Poison Dragons by Tim Murgatroyd - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Tim Murgatroyd
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thunder-crack.
‘Follow me, Little General!’ he cried. ‘If you lose me, it will be your own look out!’
*
I took his warning to heart. The crowds jostled and shoved, remorselessly circulating. Not one of those people knew my name or had a reason to care for me. I clung to my cousin like a monkey attached to its owner’s wrist by a cord.
Buildings towered. Houses lit by numberless lanterns, some made of glass with many facets, others of coloured paper. A million tongues were chattering until individual voices were lost.
Cousin Hong stopped frequently, stuffing delicacies into his plump face, downing cups of warm wine. His appetite seemed boundless. For all my confusion, I sensed he was anxious to be returning home.
Crowds gathered around acrobats, their faces painted like idols. We passed a show of marionettes, paper figures dancing on sticks. I stared at women wearing head-dresses shaped like butterflies. Precious, mysterious creatures compared to our homely mountain-girls. Ladies in dresses white as frost, accompanied by bellowing young gentlemen, lanterns hanging from long staves like dancing stars.
Urchins burned pellets of coal-dust which flared beneath skipping feet. Fireworks of bamboo crackled and banged.
I had never heard so much noise except during a storm. It was the roar of humanity, in a certain mood.
At last we reached a large, forbidding gatehouse and Cousin Hong instantly sobered. Statues of the gate-gods glared down at us, scimitars in hand. He turned to me and grinned. ‘Little General,’ he said. ‘Now your new life begins.’
Uncle Ming’s residence in the capital demanded many adjustments. My childhood freedoms were at an end, lost in a maze of strangers. I was utterly dependent on my relatives; not merely to fulfil Father’s hopes, but for every mouthful in my bowl.
One must always begin with home. Uncle Ming’s overlooked the Great Wine Market, adjoining the Imperial Way. Within high boundary walls, topped with metal spikes to deter thieves, were a dozen buildings where Uncle Ming’s sway was absolute. At the rear of the enclosure ran South Canal, busy with boats and barges and the singsong cries of river-folk. I came to know it well, for my bedroom leant over the water, at the top of a low wooden tower.
Besides the house intended for his family, the enclosure contained warehouses and breweries, as well as accom-modation for servants and apprentices. It was a place of constant bustle. Fermentation and the clatter of jars were continual. The sweet, heady scent of wine floated like a tender mist. Uncle Ming had many customers to satisfy, including nobles and the Imperial Court.
The front gatehouse gave straight onto the Wine Market, and for four days of the week thousands thronged there. Such variety! Simple stalls displaying a few home-brewed jars. Poor men hoping to sell wine by the cup. Fine merchants in wooden pagodas on wheels, where they conducted business, softening up customers with free samples. Soldiers and market-officials on the look-out for bribes, however small.
There were always dozens of drunkards, drawn like bees to an ever-open flower. Food-sellers tended charcoal braziers, crying out to passers-by. Steamed dumplings.
Rice cakes. Pork fried with ginger, anise and bitter melon.
Salt-fish spread in a paste on buns. Prawn sauce flavoured with lime. One man kept a kennel of panting, over-stuffed puppies behind his stall; I have rarely tasted meat so tender.
Uncle Ming’s house stood on the shady side of the square. In summer this was a blessing and relief. The rest of the year we shivered, especially in the family apartments. There is nothing colder than fashionable, black lacquer furniture; or dull, conventional pictures of angry gods. Rooms swept obsessively until there was no trace of dust or muddle. These chambers were Honoured Aunty’s domain.
Honoured Aunty was Uncle’s first wife and the mother of his three official sons. Cousin Zhi, the youngest,
‘Follow me, Little General!’ he cried. ‘If you lose me, it will be your own look out!’
*
I took his warning to heart. The crowds jostled and shoved, remorselessly circulating. Not one of those people knew my name or had a reason to care for me. I clung to my cousin like a monkey attached to its owner’s wrist by a cord.
Buildings towered. Houses lit by numberless lanterns, some made of glass with many facets, others of coloured paper. A million tongues were chattering until individual voices were lost.
Cousin Hong stopped frequently, stuffing delicacies into his plump face, downing cups of warm wine. His appetite seemed boundless. For all my confusion, I sensed he was anxious to be returning home.
Crowds gathered around acrobats, their faces painted like idols. We passed a show of marionettes, paper figures dancing on sticks. I stared at women wearing head-dresses shaped like butterflies. Precious, mysterious creatures compared to our homely mountain-girls. Ladies in dresses white as frost, accompanied by bellowing young gentlemen, lanterns hanging from long staves like dancing stars.
Urchins burned pellets of coal-dust which flared beneath skipping feet. Fireworks of bamboo crackled and banged.
I had never heard so much noise except during a storm. It was the roar of humanity, in a certain mood.
At last we reached a large, forbidding gatehouse and Cousin Hong instantly sobered. Statues of the gate-gods glared down at us, scimitars in hand. He turned to me and grinned. ‘Little General,’ he said. ‘Now your new life begins.’
Uncle Ming’s residence in the capital demanded many adjustments. My childhood freedoms were at an end, lost in a maze of strangers. I was utterly dependent on my relatives; not merely to fulfil Father’s hopes, but for every mouthful in my bowl.
One must always begin with home. Uncle Ming’s overlooked the Great Wine Market, adjoining the Imperial Way. Within high boundary walls, topped with metal spikes to deter thieves, were a dozen buildings where Uncle Ming’s sway was absolute. At the rear of the enclosure ran South Canal, busy with boats and barges and the singsong cries of river-folk. I came to know it well, for my bedroom leant over the water, at the top of a low wooden tower.
Besides the house intended for his family, the enclosure contained warehouses and breweries, as well as accom-modation for servants and apprentices. It was a place of constant bustle. Fermentation and the clatter of jars were continual. The sweet, heady scent of wine floated like a tender mist. Uncle Ming had many customers to satisfy, including nobles and the Imperial Court.
The front gatehouse gave straight onto the Wine Market, and for four days of the week thousands thronged there. Such variety! Simple stalls displaying a few home-brewed jars. Poor men hoping to sell wine by the cup. Fine merchants in wooden pagodas on wheels, where they conducted business, softening up customers with free samples. Soldiers and market-officials on the look-out for bribes, however small.
There were always dozens of drunkards, drawn like bees to an ever-open flower. Food-sellers tended charcoal braziers, crying out to passers-by. Steamed dumplings.
Rice cakes. Pork fried with ginger, anise and bitter melon.
Salt-fish spread in a paste on buns. Prawn sauce flavoured with lime. One man kept a kennel of panting, over-stuffed puppies behind his stall; I have rarely tasted meat so tender.
Uncle Ming’s house stood on the shady side of the square. In summer this was a blessing and relief. The rest of the year we shivered, especially in the family apartments. There is nothing colder than fashionable, black lacquer furniture; or dull, conventional pictures of angry gods. Rooms swept obsessively until there was no trace of dust or muddle. These chambers were Honoured Aunty’s domain.
Honoured Aunty was Uncle’s first wife and the mother of his three official sons. Cousin Zhi, the youngest,
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