Moby Jack & Other Tall Tales

by Garry Kilworth

  The mocking man gave her an angry look before vanishing.

  ‘Who are you talking to, daughter?’ asked the war lord. ‘This business has turned your mind. Let me go instead, I beg of you? I am a man, used to bearing arms and fighting with the forces of evil. You are but a young woman. I do not want to lose you, daughter. You are all I have left of your mother, whom I loved dearly.’

  But Mai Song would not hear of her father taking her place. Instead she asked to borrow his black-and-gold armour, which he wore when he went to battle against the enemies of the marsh people. Her father gladly loaned it to her, along with his sword and his charger. Mai Song needed to pad her limbs and torso, to make the armour fit. Once she was accoutred she set forth on the charger, heading north towards the great volcano the crane had told her about.

  Her first night out in the open was not easy. She was unused to raw weather and became damp and cold in the exposed conditions. Mai Song soon learned however, and thereafter sought the shelter of rock overhangs, or gullies, or copses. She found soft mossy banks on which to rest, taught herself how to construct bivouacs and soon became proficient at making fires. She had never lacked hunting skills and had always been good around the marshes of the castle with her little bow. Small mammals were her main fare, and plump birds, supplemented by wild vegetables. There were herbs and spices growing free in the wilderness, which made her meals that much more appetising and nourishing. Gradually, over the days, her physical condition hardened and her mind quickened.

  Her father’s armour was heavy and chafed her elbows, neck and knees, but she told herself she must get used to that. If she were to be confronted by a foe, she would need to look fearsome, and so had to wear the metal except when sleeping. Her horse was the most important thing in the world to her and she made sure it was fed and watered, groomed and blanketed, even before taking care of herself. This was not just because she had a love of the beasts, but was wise husbandry. Without her horse she would doubtless not survive for very long.

  Mai Song’s first enemy was a giant who lived in a limestone cave she hoped to use as a night shelter.

  The giant was tall and naked, wearing only a gigantic helmet on his head, his body being covered in long hair. His nose was a snout, much like that of a pig, and his feet were huge and spreading. He came out of the cave at a rush, roaring obscenities and threats.

  The mocking man appeared for a few moments.

  ‘Now you’re for it,’ he crowed. ‘You’ll be spitted on that monster’s teeth before long.’

  Mai Song ignored the mocking man, speaking instead to the onrushing giant.

  ‘What are you getting in a fuss about?’ she enquired. ‘I only wish to share your cave for the night.’

  The giant skidded to a halt and stared, then said in thick husky accents, ‘You have the voice of a young woman.’

  ‘That’s because I am a young woman.’

  The giant smiled lasciviously at this, having little enough sense or guile to keep his face clean of his thoughts.

  ‘Why, then you can certainly share my cave with me.’

  Mai Song made a fire in the cave, since the giant had never known how to work such common wonders. Later, while he stared at her across the flames, she took two of the broken boughs she was using for logs and sharpened the ends with her sword.

  ‘What are you doing?’ asked the giant.

  ‘These?’ she laughed. ‘Don’t you know that wood burns better when one end of the log has been cut to a point? We shall need these to start the fire again from its embers, tomorrow morning.’

  ‘I knew that,’ muttered the giant with a scowl, ‘I just wanted to make sure you did.’

  Mai Song slept fitfully in her armour, keeping her sword by her side, while the giant lay awake, his milky eyes on her form. In the early hours she was woken by the giant shaking her shoulders. Sitting up she saw that her sword was on the other side of the cave.

  ‘Wake up,’ growled the giant, his voice thick with lust, ‘I find that I want you.’

  ‘Oh that,’ she laughed. ‘Just a minute while I put some more wood on the fire. We don’t want to be cold, do we?’

  She went to the wood pile and picked up the two sharpened stakes. ‘Oh,’ she then said, with the two stakes poised above the glowing charcoal, ‘the fire’s a bit low. Can you blow on the embers?’

  The giant went down on all fours and started to blow on the coals.

  Mai Song quickly rammed the stakes down on the giant’s two spread hands, pinning them to the earth. The giant screamed in agony. Mai Song then leaped to snatch up her sword and swiftly decapitated the giant before he could wrench the stakes free.

  The giant’s head rolled into the fire, his mouth still cursing her. His filthy wild hair was soon in flames, the scorched smell driving her from the cave. Mai Song mounted her charger and sped away, through a low valley. She rode hard and long, but could still hear the giant’s severed head shrieking at her from more than a league away.

  This was only her first encounter with a problem. In the next few weeks she had to outwit a man-eating tiger which picked up her scent, by laying false trails for the creature to follow. She fought and killed a monster snake, which had wrapped its coils around her steed during the night hours. She had wide raging rivers to cross, chasms to negotiate, wandering hordes to avoid. There were villages where the people were kind to her, and gave her food and shelter, and there were villages which drove her out with stones and shouts the minute she entered their community. Once she unwisely stayed amongst the bone-urns of a graveyard and someone’s ancestor rose up and in hollow accents ordered her to be gone from that sacred place before she was forced to stay there permanently.

  There were chill and unfriendly mornings when the isolated shrines to wayfarers’ gods were sparkling with frost crystals. There were days when the snow lightly covered the bridges across gullies and hid them from her searching eyes. There were nights when the rain came down in silver torrents from an indifferent moon.

  Finally, not long after her encounter with the phantom, Mai Song came in sight of the volcano she sought. But before she could begin to scale its heights she was attacked by a group of bandits, coming out of the east, their banners flying from tall black lances. They wore the red armour of men of the south lands and their steeds were stocky ponies with hairy ankles: sturdy little creatures that could cover rough terrain without injury. The riders were short men, with wide shoulders. The bandits hemmed Mai Song in with spear points, until she called them cowards, thieves and murderers, keeping her voice low and masculine this time.

  ‘We are no thieves,’ said their chief, furiously. ‘We are the dispossessed. Once my family had land until a mandarin from the south stole it from us. We are no murderers. We always give our victims a chance to defend themselves against equal odds. We are certainly no cowards, as I shall prove to you in single combat.’

  With these words the man who led the bandits prepared himself for battle.

  The mocking man appeared before Mai Song.

  ‘You easily overcame that oaf of an ogre in the cave because he was stupid, but this youth has brains as well as brawn. I think this time, missy, you have met your match. I shall enjoy seeing your entrails decorate the lance of this bandit chief.’

  Once again, Mai Song simply ignored the mocking man as if he were not there, and he fumed and fretted, accusing her of incivility and bad manners, before vanishing in a cloud of petulance.

  Ringed by the bandits, Mai Song’s lack of experience with a blade in battle soon became evident. The bandit chief at first attacked her armour with vigour, causing many dents to appear. But when he saw how inexperienced she was at combat, her wild blows easy to avoid, he was puzzled. What was, quite evidently, a callow youth doing wearing a war lord’s armour, wandering around in bandit country? The bandit chief simply began defending himself against the uncontrolled blows she tried to rain down on him in her enthusiasm.

  Finally, becoming bored, he disarmed her
.

  ‘Let me see the features of one who wears the armour of war lord, but fights like the boy who brings in the kindling,’ cried the bandit chief. ‘Let me see your face.’

  ‘Let me see yours,’ retorted Mai Song, snatching her bow from the saddle of her horse. ‘Don’t think because I’m not good at sword play that I can’t hit a running rat at fifty paces with this bow.’

  The bandit chief removed his helmet to reveal the handsome rugged features of a young man.

  ‘I am Chang, of the clan On, whose home was in the far south until his father was killed, his mother raped and murdered, and his home taken from him. Now let us see the stripling behind that armour. Does your father know you are out?’

  Mai Song put down her weapon and removed her helmet. ‘Yes, he does,’ she replied, furiously, ‘and he approves.’

  On Chang had the good grace to gasp on seeing the face of a woman appear, while his men burst out laughing.

  Mai Song spent the night with the bandits, sitting talking around a fire. They said they would have offered to help her in her quest, but they could not because the King of Gwongdong was their sworn enemy. He was the one who robbed them of their heritage. ‘This prince you wish to marry,’ said On Chang. ‘He is not a good man. He cannot be, since he is the son of a very bad man.’

  ‘A son does not have to be like his father,’ replied Mai Song, in defence of her lover. ‘Pang Yau is all goodness—a pacifist. You would know if you met him. Forgive me for my bluntness, but the following is true. You have been forced into the ways of a nomadic warrior: you are a rough man, not used to finer feelings. That is not your fault, but Pang Yau will teach me about art, writing, and philosophy—things you could not understand, with your way of life—having to kill and loot to make a living.’

  ‘Well,’ replied On Chang, generously, ‘if you believe him to be this—this demi-god of gentleness, then perhaps he is. Maybe we will help you anyway, even though he is the son of a pig.’

  But Mai Song said she wanted no help. She wished to complete the mission on her own. The next morning she left her horse and armour with the bandits and climbed the volcano. It was sweltering on the volcano, as Mai Song approached the rim, for the cone was still active. Not far down inside the lava bubbled and spat. Huge gobbets of molten rock leapt and fell, splattering on the stormy surface of the boiling lake. Liquid stone spurted ribbons of fire across the top of the crater. Mai Song tried to shield her vulnerable eyes from the heat, as she sought the crevice in which the glass bones of the dragon lay.

  Finally, she found what she was looking for, but there was very little of the skeleton left. Only three ribs remained. These she gathered in her arms and went back down the slopes of the volcano.

  The bandits were intrigued with her discovery. One man among them had been apprentice to a sorcerer, before he was dispossessed. Mai Song questioned him about the properties of the three ribs.

  The man inspected them carefully. ‘These two bones are from the upper part of the skeleton,’ he announced, ‘close to the shoulders. If struck, one of them will shatter all glass within a region of a thousand miles. Similarly, if struck, the note from the second rib will open all locks within a hundred miles. The last rib, the smallest, I recognise immediately. It is the rib from which sprouted the dragon’s right wing. If this glass rib is struck, its note will summon the winged horse of Tang. She is the fastest steed in all China and will carry you anywhere you wish to go with the greatest of speed...’

  ‘But,’ said Mai Song, ‘how will I know which of the two large ribs will open the lock to my lover’s prison? If I strike the wrong rib, the other, being made of glass, will shatter.’

  The sorcerer’s apprentice shrugged in sympathy. ‘I do not know how you will accomplish your task. The ribs are identical. There is no way you can tell by looking at them, which is the one to shatter glass, and which to open locks. I can’t help you. I’m sorry.’

  On Chang sat with her and pored over the two glass ribs, trying to find some mark or symbol which would give her a clue as to the identity of the magic contained within. After three hours they had exhausted every possibility. Mai Song thanked On Chang for his help. She then struck the small rib with her sword. A high note rang out and the rib immediately shattered into a million fragments.

  A whinnying sound was heard on the wind, then suddenly a magnificent horse appeared in the sky, flying down towards the bandit camp. The golden mare with a blonde mane and tail had huge feathered wings on its flanks. The wonderful beast shone in the sun as it swooped to land nearby. Once on the ground it folded its beautiful wings and stood waiting, pawing the ground gently, for its mistress.

  Mai Song said goodbye to the bandits. She left them her father’s charger, armour and sword, requesting that they be delivered when the bandits next swept by her father’s castle on their way to pillaging Gwongdong. On Chang said he would hand them to her father personally. Mai Song then wished the bandits well in their fight to regain the clan’s lands and castle, after which she mounted the great horse of Tang. In her belt were the two glass bones of the dragon, like curved swords one on either hip. Her face was set and purposeful.

  Into the air she went, her hair flowing behind her as a stream of jet. High above the plains and fields the flying horse took her, until the world was spread below her. She could see fine brown rivers wriggling like long worms across the land. There were green squares which were the paddy fields of rice plants, and white-tipped mountains in the distance, and rugged wasteland around the water margin. It became colder the closer she went to the sun, which seemed a strange thing to her.

  Finally, after a long flight, the mare began to descend. It landed near a dark building made of huge blocks of granite. It was without any windows and there was only one door made of heavy grey slabs of slate. There were no hinges on the door. A flat iron girder halfway down the door, its ends buried in the granite either side of the doorway, held the slate monstrosity in place. There was a massive lock in the middle of this girder, cryptic in design and no doubt in operation.

  Mai Song alighted from the horse of Tang. She stood before the sorcerer’s castle, with its single high tower, and pondered on her problem. There was no white crane to help her now. Her lover’s fate was in her hands and if she failed Pang Yau would remain a prisoner forever, his soul feeding the damned. Mai Song prayed to her gods, especially Wong Tai Sin, the goatboy whose visions had helped many lost spirits. This time however, Wong Tai Sin did not answer the orisons. It might be that he knew the woman already had the answer, if only she could find it deep within her keen brain, recognise it, bring it out into the light.

  ‘You will never find the key,’ murmured a silky voice near to her ear. ‘You are a silly woman. Give up now. Go home, live in obscurity, before you make a fool of yourself once more.’

  She knew the mocking man had appeared again, by her side, but she steadfastly refused to acknowledge his presence. Instead she concentrated on her problem. As she was thinking, she kicked idly at a stone, which shot from her foot and struck another stone. The two rocks cracked together, to fly off in different directions. At that moment Mai Song had the answer and turned to laugh in the mocking man’s misty face. ‘You are the fool,’ she said. ‘You spend your whole time trying to destroy me with your bitterness and hate. Well this is the last time I want to see you. Do you understand? To appear before me again would be quite useless. I will never look at you again, nor will I hear your foul tongue. You are dead to me.’

  The mocking man wailed and rippled away rapidly into the middle distance, where he waited to see what would happen.

  Mai Song took the two glass ribs from her belt and struck them both together, thus producing a note simultaneously from each rib. Both ribs shattered immediately, but at the same time a loud CLANK! came from the keyhole set in the iron bar. The knitted lock had unravelled itself. The great slate door fell forward with a crash, into the dust, leaving the way from Pang Yau’s prison wide open. Pang Yau came
walking through the doorway to freedom, just as the whole castle began collapsing. It seemed that the slate door had also been the keystone to the ugly construction. It was soon no more than a jumble of blocks lying scattered in the dirt. Mai Song hoped that the sorcerer himself was buried under their weight.

  ‘My darling,’ said the prince, taking her in his arms, ‘you passed all the tests with flying colours!’

  Mai Song was confused. She pushed Pang Yau out to arm’s length. Studying him, he did not look like someone who had been incarcerated in total darkness, within cold stone walls, for many months. He was smiling gently at her, his mouth a curved crescent below his narrow nose. She compared him with the pathetic mocking man, who still stood whining some distance away. The darkness had now blown away from the creature who had tormented her since she was 12 years of age.

  The two figures could have been twin brothers, they were so much alike.

  ‘A test?’ said Mai Song, in a disbelieving tone. ‘A test? Where is the dark sorcerer who imprisoned you? Are you trying to tell me there is no such person? Was all this engineered by you and your father’s wizard? I don’t understand, Pang Yau.’

  The prince was too full of himself to notice the dramatic change in her voice and expression.

  ‘I see you have been comparing me with myself!’ he said, nodding towards the mocking man. ‘Yes, I have been with you all along, since I first saw you leaning over the battlements of your father’s castle. I fell in love with you then, but there was a problem. My father would not consent to a marriage to a lowly marsh lord’s daughter. Only when I agreed to put you through a series of tests did my father agree to even consider the match.

  ‘First I had to try to destroy your will. My father’s wizard fashioned an image of me for this purpose, an engine of sorcery which you call the mocking man. It was the mocking man’s task to bend you, to try to break your spirit, though I always knew you would win through. We even sent “hope” in the form of the white crane, for there must always be a tiny fragment of hope around to make the torture complete. Those without hope simply fall into apathy and listlessness. There is no victory for a mocking man in forcing a state of indifference.