The Palace of Heavenly Pleasure

by Adam Williams

  ‘I am aware that groups of rabblerousers have been arrested in various parts of the empire for hooliganism and insurrection.’

  The old man sighed, and pulled his fur coat closer round his shoulders. ‘I do hope that tonight we can come to a mutual understanding.’ His mouth cracked into a smile and a gold tooth glinted in the firelight. ‘The Black Sticks are desirous of your continuing friendship, you know. I am sure that I speak also on behalf of Iron Man Wang—and the other great forces that are with us and still building.’

  ‘In my experience interests are more reliable than friendships. You might begin by telling me what common interests the Black Sticks and Iron Man’s bandits have with the Harmonious Fists. You are, I presume, alluding to the Boxers? The bonze in the shadows is the mountebank priest who demonstrated his conjuring tricks at the railway camp, is he not? Why do you not bring him into our circle? Or are you his mouth tonight? I recall that he is both blind and mute.’

  ‘You will hear his eloquence before the night is over, and if you are fortunate you will also see his vision. We are entering a time of wonders, Da Ren … wonders.’

  ‘As I told you, I respect only interests. And I fail to see the benefit to either of your organisations of joining a peasant rebellion.’

  ‘If the Court supports us we cannot be in rebellion. Do you think that the Black Sticks are merely a criminal gang, Da Ren? I doubt that there are more loyal or devoted servants of the Emperor and the dynasty than Iron Man Wang and myself. And yet we have lived in exile, underground or on the wrong side of the law, watching evil thieves and barbarians stealing our heritage, watching our beloved Emperor succumb to the bullying of foreigners, seeing the poisonous magic of the Christians spread like a cancer over our land. Iron Man may live in a forest, among the animals, but his are the ancient virtues…’

  ‘Plundering merchants’ caravans?’

  Iron Man Wang grunted irritably. Tang Dexin smiled.

  ‘A tax on those who deserve it: is that not how you once described it? Iron Man has done very well—to our mutual profit in the past, and perhaps for a while longer to come. The silver shipment from Tsitsihar, for example, will be a useful addition…’

  ‘The English soap merchants will be accompanying Lu Jincai. Is that really a good idea?’

  ‘Is the da ren so concerned about the safety of the barbarians?’

  ‘An attack on a foreigner always creates complications, and paperwork.’

  ‘Perhaps not for much longer.’

  ‘“Exterminate the foreigners. Save the Ch’ing.” Do I take it that the Black Stick Society is now formally adopting the motto of the Boxers? I thought that you were more practical.’

  ‘Da Ren, we have known each other for many years. Will you tell me honestly that you do not appreciate what is happening in our country? Do you really not see the Harmonious Fists for what they are? And what forces they have unleashed? It is not an army of men alone who will drive out the foreigners. But when the gods themselves in their thousands come to support us…’

  ‘My dear friend, Tang Dexin—’

  ‘Da Ren, Da Ren, I did not believe it at first. Why would I? Like you I seek truth from facts. But my eyes were opened by the remarkable things I have seen. Look around you. Listen. Do you not feel it? Listen with your senses and not your mind. Listen with your heart.’

  The Mandarin had thought it was the wind intensifying but he now realised that the sighing in the air of which he had become half consciously aware was in fact singing, a faraway chant, male and female voices fading in from different directions and dying again, with a hint of mournful flute behind. The lights swirled behind the trees. Drums thumped at irregular intervals.

  ‘So now you are presenting me with conjuring tricks. What are you going to produce next? Ghosts? Maybe you are getting old, Tang Lao. You are hardly showing respect for my intelligence. Or do you mean only to intimidate my guards?’

  But Tang Dexin had turned on his stool and was peering behind him. Iron Man Wang had already risen to his feet and was groping for his axe, as if for comfort. His eyes stared. A muscle was quivering in his cheek.

  The blind priest, led by the boy, had moved into the firelight. He was motionless but his arms were outstretched and his sightless eyes were fixed at a point above the trees. The singing sound grew louder.

  A white phosphorescence appeared to be growing at the top of some of the pines, drifting upwards in filaments of yellow and green smoke.

  ‘Fireworks, Tang Lao? Very pretty.’

  But the old man ignored him and continued to stare. Imperceptibly his hand moved to his mouth and he began unconsciously to suck his thumb.

  Some of the phosphorescence was now drifting downwards through the higher branches of the trees, like strands of diaphanous material weaving and twirling to the pulsating of the drums and the sighing of the faraway song. It was fanciful, but the Mandarin believed that he could make out vague white shapes in the smoke, the glint of silver on white arms, the trail of a dress gliding behind the pine branches. The music—lute sounds now mixed with the flute—grew louder.

  Carefully the Mandarin turned to observe the effects on his men. Major Lin was standing behind him, motionless, his mouth twisted open, eyes narrowed, one hand on his pistol holster. The soldiers sat rigidly on their horses, staring, frightened. Iron Man Wang and his men seemed similarly amazed, and Tang Dexin was making low moaning sounds. He seemed entranced.

  There were unquestionably figures moving, or rather gliding, at the tops of the trees. The Mandarin recognised several apsaras, the elegant sky maidens of Buddhist manuscripts and monastery paintings, who appeared to be floating in the shimmering haze. The smoke changed hue from yellow to red and in the new pink glow the Mandarin thought he saw a procession of gorgeously dressed ladies in white veils and silks moving slowly among the higher branches. The invisible female singers touched beautiful, haunting heights—despite himself, the Mandarin felt a wistfulness and a languor, almost desire burning in his loins—then the song and the vision of the ladies began to fade as suddenly as they had appeared, to be replaced by loud, insistent drumbeats and discordant braying of trumpets, the music of the palace giving way to the call of the camp of war. Larger, stranger shapes were forming in the higher branches.

  He had lost track of time. Something pulled his attention away from the treetops to the glade itself—and he started with shock. The glade had filled with men.

  There were hundreds of them. They were standing in ranks and companies like an army drawn up on a battlefield. Each troop had its uniform and colour. Red turbans and red tunics bearing spears and pikes. Yellow turbans and yellow jackets wielding heavy swords. One group appeared to be dressed in tiger skins, carrying banners. There was a small company of girls, diminutive in their uniform red pyjamas, but their eyes shone defiantly and they, too, were armed with swords and others held up large red lanterns. The Mandarin had spent a lifetime reviewing troops. He saw at a glance that here was a disciplined array. Nor did he disparage the extreme youth of most of the men—at least half seemed under sixteen or seventeen—or their clear peasant origin: burnt, wide-eyed, rustic faces gazed at the sights above them in the trees with the foolish, open wonder of children. But, then, the hardier, older men scattered among them were staring too, and the few here and there who had the effete look of the city wastrel—elements of Iron Man’s gang and the Black Sticks? he wondered. The realisation, however, that hit his professional eye and sent a chill to his belly was that if these were the Harmonious Fists they were not the rabble he had imagined. Raw and inexperienced they must be, but no different from the young recruits like himself who had lined up in village squares to join the Hunan Braves forty years before, and they had grown to become one of the most formidable armies the empire had ever seen. Yet what diabolical force had had the power to gather such numbers in such a time—in secret, without any organisation of which he was aware—in his own district without him knowing? It was unnatural.

&nb
sp; The smoke in the treetops had shifted and now dank grey swathes of smoke seemed to be stretching a platform into the air. The ghostly white shapes he had seen before he dropped his eyes were becoming more substantial. With a chill, he recognised what they were. There, on a horse, in the air, wild beard and topknot clearly visible above the armour, his fierce brows beetled in a resolute grimace recognisable from a thousand statues in a thousand temples and wielding his enormous spear, was the war god, Guandi, shining and shimmering in the night, a stone statue come to frightening life. There was a loud cry as several hundred men drew in their breath in fear or gasped in wonder. The inarticulate human sound rose for a moment above the thunder of drums and trumpets. The Mandarin was shocked to hear his own cry among it, and small it sounded.

  The Boxer priest stood in the same outstretched position as before, although now his lips were moving in what might have been silent incantation or prayer. The firelight shifted the shadows on his pallid features, but the sightless white eyeballs remained fixed on the sky. He showed no awareness of the growing ranks and companies forming behind him, yet the Mandarin had the feeling that he was orchestrating the gathering as much as he was somehow conjuring the phantasms in the trees … but, of course, he told himself with an effort, that was what he was meant to believe. He must resist the entrancement. He forced himself to concentrate: there are walkways in the treetops, actors, he told himself, fireworks and wires, yes, wires for the apsaras to swing themselves—this is opera, this is circus, this is illusion. These are men …

  Another long-drawn gasp of surprise welled over the drumbeats. All around the circle of treetops other figures were forming out of the phosphorescence into recognisable shapes, marching sturdily forward to stand with their weapons on the cloud. The Mandarin recognised Guandi’s companions from the War of the Three Kingdoms, Liu Bei, Zhang Fei, Zhuge Liang, and their arch enemy Cao Cao, the latter’s white beard waving in the breeze. And there was the Shang warrior, Zhao Yun, and one-legged Sun Bin of the Warring States. There was another gasp as the crowd recognised the protagonists of The Journey to the West: the magical monkey god, Sun Wu-kong, his boon companions Sandy and Piggy. The greatest roar of all was reserved for the appearance of the Jade Emperor himself, flanked by his enormous guards. The glistening figures hung in the dark night above the tree-line, indistinct because of the distance from the ground, but clearly identifiable from their folklore incarnations—and they were moving, even conversing, gazing benevolently at their worshippers below.

  The unseen drums were beating at a furious rate. The Boxer priest slowly folded his arms. His heavy head fell forward and the white holes of his eyes seemed to stare directly at the group by the table. The Mandarin realised that he was walking deliberately towards them, towards him. With an effort he composed his features to look back into the sightless eyes. The blind man stood above him and, though it was impossible, he seemed to be contemplating him, studying him, reading his mind. The Mandarin felt a trickle of sweat on his forehead.

  Then the priest was standing above Tang Dexin, who cowered into his fur, averting his eyes. The priest paused for a long moment, then walked to where Iron Man Wang stood rigidly with his axe clutched in two hands. Stretching out his hand the priest touched the haft, and gently lifted the weapon out of the bandit’s grasp, swinging it lightly as if it was a weightless object. He reached out his other arm, took Iron Man Wang’s hand, and led the bandit towards the fire. Iron Man Wang offered no resistance. In fact, he looked like a man in a trance, a schoolboy stumbling after a strict master resigned to whatever punishment he deserved.

  The priest released Iron Man’s hand but kept the axe. He moved slowly towards the centre of the clearing where the firelight flickered over the front ranks of the Boxers. Eager faces watched the priest’s progress, although many others could not take their eyes away from the visions floating above their heads. Iron Man followed a pace behind. The priest raised his head in the direction of the first manifestation which had appeared, the war god Guandi. Then, with both hands, he raised the axe above his head as if he was making an offering. His body curved gracefully into a bow and he sank slowly to his knees, then rose and fell as effortlessly to perform the nine times kowtow due an emperor or a god. Iron Man stumbled to his knees and did the same in more clumsy fashion. He was still kneeling when the priest returned to him with the axe, which again he raised above his head, then placed in Iron Man’s hands. He stood back with his arms folded, waiting.

  Iron Man looked nervously to his sides, and up at the figure of Guandi, whose cloak was now swirling in the breeze and who was raising his own great axe above his head. Hesitantly Iron Man raised his axe into the same position. Slowly at first, but growing more confident with every turn, he swung it around his head in great arcs. He hurled the axe into the air with one hand and caught it effortlessly with the other. Then he was thrusting forward and lunging back, the haft twisting and turning round his body like a baton. Imperceptibly Iron Man had begun to dance. His body was shaking as if from an internal force, while his feet leaped and kicked with an elegance that seemed incongruous in such a bulk. The two blades of the axe spun on the axis of the haft, flashing red reflections from the firelight round the glade. As the speed and the violence of his movements increased, Iron Man made whooping shouts on his thrusts. The Mandarin was amazed at how fast he was moving. This was martial arts of an advanced skill.

  The priest had turned to the war god again with his arms upraised. There was a great murmur from the ranks of the Boxers. The figure of Guandi and his horse seemed to be growing and fading at the same time; green smoke swirled around his huge frame. Then he was gone. Where there had stood a horse and a god, now there was an empty black space. At that moment, Iron Man stopped dead, caught in mid-movement, one leg on the ground, the other bent, axe above his head; he stood like a temple statue. The Mandarin stared. It was still Iron Man. There were the shaggy brows, the rough beard, the flat cheeks, but the expression had altered imperceptibly, and what he saw was the fierce and unmistakable scowl of Guandi.

  ‘Did you see that? Did you see that?’ Tang Dexin was whimpering.

  There were roars from the Boxers: ‘Guandi! Guandi!’ There was an excited movement among the ranks as all strained to see what transformation had occurred before their eyes.

  Slowly Iron Man straightened his legs, brought the axe to his shoulder, and turned to face the ranks. He seemed to stand taller and to move with a grace that was not his own. He raised the axe above his head and crashed it to the ground so that one of the heads was fully buried in the grass. ‘Exterminate the foreigners and save the Ch’ing!’ he roared, and the whole crowd followed the chant.

  He and the Boxer priest moved together among the ranks and companies, examining the excited recruits. They peered closely into men’s faces and when they seemed satisfied they would pull out a candidate from among them. Most of the young men so picked stepped forward eagerly, and kowtowed energetically behind the priest and Iron Man as their weapons were proffered to whatever god had been chosen for them. Soon the whole glade was filled with figures twirling and dancing to the frantic beat of the drums and whatever internal madnesses had been unleashed inside them. And one by one the figures on the cloud faded and disappeared and there on the ground would be another rigid possessed statue where a moment before there had been a wild martial artist in a trance; a statue that, after a moment, would move and walk among the Boxers with the characteristics of the god into whom he had been transformed.

  Tang Dexin was rocking his narrow shoulders back and forth in his furs, giggling uncontrollably now. ‘I told you, Da Ren. I told you, Da Ren. You wanted guns for your precious soldiers, I give you a militia led by the gods!’

  ‘Major Lin!’ the Mandarin called. ‘Major Lin!’

  ‘Here, Da Ren.’ It took him a moment to come to attention, and it was a dazed reply. Like the others he had been hypnotised by the spectacle.

  ‘If you are indeed a soldier, get your troops tog
ether now and form around us. And remember what I told you, we are dealing with men.’

  ‘But, Da Ren, you saw—’

  ‘I saw men, Major. Nothing more. Now quietly gather your troops. We are leaving this place. In good order, I hope.’

  ‘Da Ren!’ Lin bowed curtly, and ran back to his troopers, who were huddled around their horses’ heads muttering and pointing. The Mandarin turned, and his heart stopped when he saw Major Lin gesticulating with one of the sergeants who was waving his carbine with a wild face and angry eyes. He held his breath when Lin pushed his pistol into the man’s forehead, and exhaled with relief after what seemed to be an age, during which the man shuddered, came to his senses and saluted his officer. Good. Lin knew his soldiers. The two of them should be enough to get the rest back into order. It should not take long. He had feared that he might already have lost them to the Boxers. He turned to the gibbering Tang Dexin. ‘So Iron Man is to lead a patriotic militia financed by the Black Sticks?’

  ‘The god Guandi will lead the militia, Da Ren. You saw him descend.’

  ‘And when am I to be favoured by the arrival of this divine assistance in Shishan?’

  ‘When it is time, Da Ren. The gods will choose the propitious moment to rid the country of the barbarians. Already they have graced the Imperial Court with wisdom. It will not be long now. But you must prepare for the day.’ Tang leaned forward and grabbed the Mandarin’s sleeve. ‘You are still the Tao Tai, Da Ren. Yours is the authority. But we will be there for you. I knew that you would support us when you saw.’

  ‘Exterminate the foreigners! Save the Ch’ing!’ was the cry from all around them. The Mandarin saw that the Boxer priest and Iron Man, and the others selected to be leaders in the bizarre ceremony, were moving back towards them with purposeful strides.