by P J Tierney
Dedication
For my James, Jesse and Asha
Epigraph
The Ki-Lin Ethereal Herald
One of the four auspicious animals of China, the Ki-Lin is king of the 360 beasts of the earth. Born in the centre of the earth, it lives beyond the clouds, appearing to mankind only to presage the birth of a great person, to herald the reign of a benevolent Emperor, or to foretell a ruler’s impending death.
THE BOOK OF DRAGONS & OTHER MYTHICAL BEASTS
by Joseph Nigg
Contents
Cover
Title Page
Dedication
Epigraph
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Acknowledgments
About the Author
Books by P.J. Tierney
Copyright
Prologue
On a cloud-topped mountain, on an island far from the mainland, a man stands alone on a precipice. He watches the distant sky change colour with the New Year fireworks and muffles his hands in the draping sleeves of his robe, resting them on the silk band at his waist.
Master Wu is lost in the view and his thoughts until a slight noise interrupts. Every nerve, every cell responds. In the fraction of the second it takes for the noise to register, he flicks back his tunic and twists his head then his whole body towards the source. He lands, one leg bent, ready to pounce. His forward hand is upright with fingers locked, the back in a fist poised to attack.
Master Wu moves only his eyes to seek the source. He quiets his breathing, then he waits, tense and ready.
There is another noise. He homes in on the direction. Then a footfall and he inches lower in anticipation of attack. He hears a gruff, throaty snort.
A hairy snout pokes out from the scrub and Master Wu smiles. The snout pokes out further and reveals a horn. He relaxes his fighting stance. The creature would not be unlike a stag if it wasn’t for the horn sticking out of its forehead and its body being of the five sacred colours: red, blue, black, yellow and white.
‘Ki-Lin,’ Master Wu breathes in awe and reverence. ‘It has been a long time, precious creature.’ The Ki-Lin lowers its head in agreement. ‘So he has arrived,’ Master Wu says, smiling. ‘Then this is the most auspicious day.’
Its task done, the Ki-Lin steps back into the darkness and the man lingers in its wake. Master Wu smiles to the heavens and at the dying light of the fireworks. He says to the sky, ‘You always did know how to make an entrance.’ Then he announces, ‘Welcome, Dragon,’ and he isn’t just talking about the New Year.
Chapter 1
Jamie Reign woke with a start as a blast of icy air blew across his face. He found the corner of his blanket and wedged it into the hole in the boat’s timbers to block the airflow. He shivered and huddled closer to the engine bay, but the heat from its day’s work was long gone.
Jamie slept in the engine room of his father’s tug, in a small cavity between the engine and the hull. It was quite snug when the engine was still warm, but by dawn the condensation and cold wind had usually combined into an icy dampness.
Jamie dared a peek into the main cabin. It was still dark outside, but the flickering haze of the television allowed him to see past the galley and into his father’s cabin. Hector was fully dressed, boots and all, and lying face-down on his bunk. The galley table was strewn with empty bottles. Jamie counted four beer bottles, half a bottle of whisky and a ginger ale. Not too bad.
A great grunt of a snore made Jamie jump. Hector rolled over, pursed his lips a couple of times, then settled back into a rhythmic breathing. There was no doubt that he was drunk, but not as drunk as he could have been. That was a good sign.
Jamie crept from his bed space, folded his blanket and rolled up his mattress. He collected the bottles one by one, hid the remaining whisky at the very back of a cupboard, and took Hector’s limp shirts from the line that was strung across the cabin.
Hector grunted again and rolled over. A line of dribble stretched from his lip to the pillow.
Jamie checked that Hector was still asleep before he stood on the cushioned seat and very carefully scanned the top of the cupboards. He looked in the storage compartments under the benches, then felt in the little gap between where the galley drawers finished and the hull began. He even checked behind the fuel header tank. He found three more bottles of whisky, two empty and one with a couple of centimetres of amber liquid at the bottom; a bottle of brandy that Hector must have forgotten because it was still full; a hip flask and six little liqueur bottles like the ones in hotels, all empty. But Jamie didn’t find what he was looking for.
He can’t have forgotten, he thought.
Today was the fifth of February, New Year’s Eve and Jamie’s twelfth birthday.
Twelve was a big deal when you were Chinese. The Chinese calendar worked on a twelve-year cycle, so it came full circle by your twelfth year. Bohai was Jamie’s closest friend and he had just had his twelfth birthday. The gifts and red packets full of money had arrived for days. The banquet was twelve courses of amazing food: Peking duck in two ways, a king crab as large as a washing basket, exotic shellfish that Jamie had only ever heard about and, to complete it all, Bohai’s favourite — red-bean-paste pancakes.
Jamie was half-Chinese, so he thought that his birthday might be at least half-special.
Jamie didn’t hold out hope for his own banquet, but surely not even Hector — the English part of his heritage — would let this birthday pass entirely unacknowledged. To make sure Hector stayed in a good mood, Jamie had worked especially hard on the boat, cooked all Hector’s favourite meals and generally tried to make himself invisible — which was Hector’s idea of a good son. Jamie had twice mentioned that his birthday was coming up. He hadn’t asked for anything, but had reminded his father of the date, Tuesday the fifth of February, and suggested that maybe they could go out for dinner.
‘Won’t be money for that,’ Hector had replied, but he’d said it with a smile, which made Jamie think that maybe there would be money for something else. He’d never had a birthday present.
His search so far hadn’t turned up any sign of a present this year either. But later, when Hector finally awoke and was tucking into the breakfast Jamie had prepared for him, he gave Jamie a wink, which made him think there must be something coming. Maybe it was up on deck? Jamie washed the breakfast things quickly and rushed up to look. There was nothing out of the ordinary. Still, Hector had to go to town later; maybe he was picking something up for Jamie then. Jamie worked very hard on the boat all day, trying not to jinx anything.
Hector and Jamie lived on Hector’s tugboat, The Swift, in the small Chinese fishing village of Sai Chun. It was much like any other little fishing village, with an ancient square in the middle, a lopsided parade of fishermen’s houses on the water’s edge and a scattering of houses clinging to the escarpment. On the southern headland was a faded temple that everyone knew
was haunted. A winding path weaved it all together. There was a combined shop and noodle house with a verandah for mahjong. Feng Chow ran the shop, which sold everything from diesel fuel to salt-and-pepper squid; and Old Mama Chow sat on the noodle-house verandah peeling prawns for the wonton soup and minding everyone’s business except her own.
Then there was Hector. Hector really stood out. He was big, with shoulders so broad he had to turn sideways to fit through cabin doors, and great slabs of hands that left big angry welts across Jamie’s face. He spoke only English and refused to learn even the most basic of the local phrases. He held grudges and spoke loudly. His eyes had once been a vivid blue, but were now clouded by years of alcohol and salt air.
Jamie didn’t know the Chinese part of his family. His mother, Mayling, had left Hector the day she found out she was pregnant. Bohai’s mother, Mrs Leung, had told Jamie that Hector had never been the same since. And then, twelve years ago today, Mayling’s Uncle Yang had turned up in Sai Chun. He was carrying a wriggling bundle wrapped up in an old piece of embroidered silk. The bundle turned out to be Jamie.
‘He’s your son,’ Yang told Hector.
Hector hadn’t had a sober day since.
Jamie heard Hector’s voice bellowing from the escarpment: ‘Kung Hei something Choi!’ Jamie froze. Hector was drunk. ‘Kung Hei something Choi!’ he yelled again.
Jamie raced through the square to try to head him off, his face burning with humiliation.
‘Dad, shush,’ he begged.
Too late. The villagers were already gathering to see what was causing the commotion.
Hector held his arms out wide and shouted to them all: ‘Kung Hei whatever it is Choi!’
‘It’s Kung Hei Fat Choi,’ Jamie said through gritted teeth. ‘Fat Choi. Fat.’
‘Close enough,’ Hector said, stumbling as Jamie herded him to The Swift. ‘Stupid language. How hard is it to say “Happy New Year”?’
Jamie spotted Feng Chow on the verandah of his shop, his shirt speckled with fish scales. He was tapping a huge chopping blade against the palm of his hand, in the same way a thug brings attention to the club he’s about to hit you with.
‘Everything all right, Jamie?’ Feng Chow called.
‘Yeah, it’s okay,’ Jamie said, trying to hurry Hector along. ‘I’m sorry — you know how he gets.’
Hector shook off Jamie’s grip and turned to Feng Chow, his fists raised. ‘Come on,’ he slurred, wobbling behind his hands and tripping on his own feet.
Feng’s eyes narrowed and Jamie noticed the subtle change in his stance. Feng Chow was ready to fight, if it came to that.
‘Take him home, Jamie, before he hurts himself.’
Jamie felt the whole village’s judgment as he cajoled, shoved and finally heaved Hector on board. He pushed him down the cabin stairs and left him where he fell to sleep it off.
Later, when the embarrassment had worn down, Jamie realised Hector had come back empty-handed.
Maybe it’s something small, Jamie thought, trying not to give up all hope. Maybe Hector would give it to him at dinner.
Mrs Leung dropped in with a card and a little red packet for Jamie while Hector was sleeping. Jamie was used to not getting anything, but it made it so much harder that Bohai’s family knew.
‘Have you had a nice day?’ Mrs Leung said, really asking if Hector had remembered.
Jamie nodded. ‘Oh yes, thank you,’ he said, but the tears welling in his eyes gave it away.
She gave him a hug and patted him on the back in what he guessed was a loving, motherly way. It only made him feel worse.
The villagers started meeting in the square to see in the New Year together. Jamie cooked dinner: fried noodles with beef and spring onions. The smell roused Hector from his sleep. There was still no present. Jamie wondered if he should remind Hector that his birthday was today, that he was twelve, that it was the New Year, and that all those things together meant something. But he feared that mentioning it might blow the very slim chance that maybe, just maybe, Hector had got something for him; something to make him feel special.
Dinner finished without a gift, not even a ‘happy birthday’. Jamie’s heart sank. There was no point in kidding himself any longer.
‘It’s my birthday, Dad,’ he whispered.
‘Hey, it is too. Happy birthday, boy. Special occasion calls for a special drink.’
Hector raised his glass to Jamie, drained it and filled it to the top again. Jamie saw it was a new bottle of whisky, a very expensive single malt. He knew where any birthday present money had gone.
Jamie didn’t cry that night, but he clung to the silk that had wrapped him as a baby. He felt its cool softness on his cheek and ran his fingers through the fraying edge. He buried his face in it, desperate for a trace of the woman who had once held him. He smelled only diesel fumes and cooking oil.
Outside, the villagers sang in the New Year.
‘Happy New Year,’ Jamie said to himself.
It was the Year of the Dragon again.
Chapter 2
Hector intercepted the distress call at 11 am on New Year’s Day. Fishing vessel taking water six nautical miles south-east of Tong Jiao Rock.
Hector smiled. ‘We’ve got one.’
Jamie scrambled. He knew every minute counted. He threw the loose deck equipment into the storage box and slammed it shut, then checked that the dive tanks were all chained down. He ran to the hatch, slid down the handrails to the cabin, his feet never touching the stairs, and clambered through the galley, checking every porthole was locked tight.
Back up on deck he shouted to the bridge, ‘All set below!’
Hector was hunched over a chart, plotting a course. He grunted an acknowledgment then jerked his thumb towards the mooring lines. He brought the massive engines of The Swift to life.
The roar stopped the villagers in their tracks. On this holiday, the fishermen were playing a game of football in the village square, the children dodging between them. Jamie looked longingly at the game and waved to Bohai, but his friend didn’t see him. Jamie let his arm fall back to his side.
The engines roared again and Jamie ran to the front mooring line and swung over the side of the boat. He waited for the engines to hit exactly the right pitch before he threw the line on board. He raced to the stern and repeated the manoeuvre, this time leaping from the dock back on board just as The Swift’s propellers thrust the tug forwards.
Jamie had no margin for error, but Hector didn’t bother to check if his son had landed on deck or in the water. He gunned the engines and The Swift charged for the Gate, a series of submerged rocks that protected the bay from the ocean beyond. The Gate made Sai Chun a perfect natural harbour, but getting in and out was risky.
The fishing boats managed by having bowmen either side who levered the boat through the rocky passage with long bamboo poles. The fishing boats all had huge gouges down each side where either the bamboo or the bowmen had failed. It was always a loud endeavour too, with lots of yelling from the bowmen to the bridge. But when Hector’s tug went through, there was not a word to be heard.
Jamie took position on the bow and communicated with Hector via a complicated series of hand signals. Jamie’s right hand directed the starboard engine, his left the port. The height of his hand indicated speed; the angle, the direction. As the tug squeezed between the rocks, the dual engines had to thrust forwards and backwards almost at the same time, and Jamie’s hands fluttered as if he was performing a fan dance. He had perfected the routine after years of practice and threats of violence and could almost do it with his eyes closed.
He was aware of the villagers watching as The Swift negotiated the Gate, their faces a combination of awe and dismay. Jamie suspected that every one of them hoped that this time Hector would come off second best. Jamie took pride in disappointing them.
On the bridge, Hector took a bearing from the compass and set the course, then made Jamie steer the boat. He rubbed his hands together and sai
d, ‘All the big boys’ll be short of crew over the holidays. We’ve got a shot at this one.’
Jamie hoped so because the only money in this sort of salvage came from getting there first.
He was a little too short for the captain’s chair, so he wedged his feet under the main control panel and stood with his back pushed up against the seat. He had to stand on tiptoe in rough weather. Although the position looked awkward, Jamie and The Swift were a perfect fit. He knew he handled her well. He ran with the wind when he could and kept her bow to the waves when he couldn’t. He timed any tacks with the swell and never exposed her side to a cresting white cap. He listened carefully to her, knowing that her engines whined if he asked too much of her, that she spluttered if the fuel was dirty and creaked if the seas were too rough. They were a good team and had never yet let each other down.
Jamie saw that the weather was changing. It had been a crisp, sunny day when they set out, but now they were heading into bad weather. The light, fluffy clouds from earlier were now being chased through the sky by great billowing grey masses that cast shadows on the water and produced a big blotch of cautious red on the radar. Something was brewing.
The clouds off to starboard seemed to get heavier as Jamie watched. Their great bellies bulged towards the sea. Although they were still a long way off, he felt the change in air pressure and could smell the musty approach of rain.
It was still too cold for the typhoons that tormented the fishermen in these waters. A typhoon was caused by a brew of cool air over a warm sea and since it was still winter and the water temperature so low, a typhoon shouldn’t be a threat for a good few months. But Jamie wasn’t the only person to notice that the first big signal eight typhoon, the worst possible level, seemed to arrive earlier and with more ferocity each year.
Then the wind hit and The Swift was buffeted. Jamie pushed the engine levers down to compensate. Seconds later, the sea rose up in great crashing waves and the rain bore down. Jamie bit his bottom lip as he thought of the crew they were racing to rescue being at the mercy of such an angry sea.
