Shanghai Steam

by Calvin D. Jim

  Yu ignored Quon’s last comment, certain his brother could do anything he set his mind to. Just before he closed the door behind him he heard Jung and the other Cloud Monks entering the cavern from the other side to prepare the steam-dragon for their daily sky patrol. He pushed the door shut as softly as he could and hurried after Quon.

  The brothers arrived at the stone entrance gate just as the final gathering gong sounded. Quon gave Yu a light shove. “Go! Get to the courtyard! I can do this myself!”

  “Are you sure you don’t need my—”

  “No! I need you in the courtyard! As soon as you get there start whispering my name. That way, when I leap over their heads, they will already be talking about me. Go! Go! Go!” Quon ripped the blanket off the cart and got to work assembling his device. Yu took off at a run just as a huge shadow passed over them. A quick glance up showed the Feilong dragon slowly gaining altitude above the monastery with Jung in the saddle.

  Yu wound his way through the dozens of buildings until he reached the courtyard. There had to be at least a thousand people there, all dressed in their finest robes to honour both the newest Cloud Monks and Master Wei, brother of their very own Abbott, Master Keung. Yu jockeyed for a good view, working his way through the crowd, along the outside of the courtyard. He spied a nearly empty staircase and aimed for that vantage point, trying not to step on toes or knock over wobbly old-timers.

  “Excuse me, pardon me, sorry.” Halfway to the staircase he remembered Quon’s instructions. “Where’s Quon? Have you seen Quon?” he whispered loudly as he squirmed his way through the packed crowd. “I’m looking for Quon, have you seen my brother, Quon?”

  An old woman jabbed an elbow in his ribs on his way past. “Shut up, boy! Master Wei is about to speak!”

  “Sorry.” He moved on as quickly as he could. By the time he reached the staircase and ran to the landing at the top, he was seriously short of breath. The day was hot, the crowd was massive, and the excitement was overwhelming. Yu took a deep breath to calm himself. He ‘separated the clouds’ and ‘pushed the waves’, focusing on his qi and not the buzzing crowd or the baking sun. He closed his eyes and tried to concentrate on Master Wei’s voice like an island in the storm of bodies. He breathed in, and breathed out, and listened.

  “Brothers and Sisters, thank you so much for your kind and generous welcome. It saddens me that my duties to the order keep me away and I can only find my way home every ten years. Much is changing in the world beyond our mountains, beyond blessed Tibet and India, so this place, this locus of peace, warms my heart greatly. Today is a very special day because it is the day we welcome new Cloud Monks to the order. My dear brother, Keung, has asked me to do the honour of introducing you to the newest warriors in the battle against oppression and slavery. But first, a prayer. O Amida, Oneness of Life and Light—”

  A tremendous steam whistle, followed by a high-pitched, blood-curdling scream, interrupted the prayer. Yu opened his eyes just in time to see Quon bound, out of control, from the eastern rooftop to the western one. Quon appeared to have legs at least two feet longer than normal and when he landed on the far roof, his legs compressed and the still-building pressure shot him back up into the sky again.

  Masters Wei and Keung both vaulted lightly up onto the steeply sloped tile roof of the Dukhang, running madly after the rocket boy. Without a second thought, Yu launched himself ten feet up onto the library roof, thinking only of his cousin’s safety. He ran straight up to the peak, taking giant steps and doing his best not to slip. He watched as Quon blew past Master Keung and, although the Abbott leaped high, he was too late to reach him.

  The dragon-steppers shot Quon straight down into the courtyard, forcing the crowd to run for the exits. Yu was sure that his little brother was going to hit the stones headfirst and be killed by his own invention, but at the very last moment Quon got his feet under him and the impact was absorbed. Master Wei changed directions suddenly and sprang down to the courtyard, but while the master was inbound, Quon’s dragon-steppers released their pressure and blasted him sky-high like a New Year’s rocket.

  Yu shut down his fear, closed his mind to everything else, took a deep breath and flew straight up off the roof and into Quon’s path. The young brothers crashed together and Quon’s skinny little elbow slammed hard into Yu’s head, but Yu held on tight. The dragon-steppers sputtered, and then ran out of steam. Yu smiled. It was over. Quon was safe. And then he looked down and saw they were nearly a hundred feet above the courtyard.

  He was puzzled for a moment, having no idea how on earth they got so high, but his confusion was quickly forgotten when gravity started to drag them back down. He took a deep breath, focused his qi, and tried to remember everything he was taught. Then he heard the hiss of a massive steam engine below him and saw a glint of sunlight on brass and gold wings. “Jung!” Yu shouted, and he saw Master Wei leap from roof crest to dragon wing to arrow straight toward them. “You’ve saved us, Master! Quon! We’re saved!”

  No answer. Yu felt Master Wei’s arms close around them. “Quon…?”

  Yu looked back over his shoulder at the Tawang-chu Valley and straightened his pack.

  “You are homesick already, young Yu?”

  “No, Master Wei, just wondering how Quon will take to farming.”

  “It is only until he learns some discipline and his legs are healed. If he applies himself, he should be able to apply for the academy in two years’ time.”

  “Will his legs ever heal completely? They’re really smashed up.”

  “Not completely. I don’t think he will ever master the ability of lightness in Qinggong, but after the three of us were swept out of the sky by Jung on the Feilong dragon, I think Quon has set his sights on flying. Only time will tell, though.” He took a sip from his water skin. “Now, shall we make our way to Lhasa?”

  “Of course, Master. Can I ask one question, though?”

  “You may ask as many questions as you wish, Yu. You are with me to learn.”

  “Thank you, Master. So, when do we stop for lunch?”

  * * * * *

  Tim Reynolds is a Calgary, Alberta writer/photographer. In the past year he has had steampunk, fantasy, horror, romance, science fiction, and historical stories published. He received an Honourable Mention in the Writers of the Future Contest and is a proud member of the Imaginative Fiction Writers Association and SF Canada.

  Fire in the Sky

  Ray Dean

  The rooster’s call shook Wong Feng awake. After a quick stretch to loosen the stiffness in his back, he walked to town. There was much to do. And only a few short hours of daylight.

  Here, the morning sun was bright but within the port town there was only the heavy grey light cast by the shifting shadows of airships floating just above the rooftops. If he had a choice he would never set foot in town again, but there was something he must see through. Feng stopped under a tree at the end of a street and looked up into its branches. He narrowed his gaze at the shadows above his head. There was no movement yet. A simple bang on the trunk shook leaves and startled a cry. A child of ten landed at his feet, eyes half-closed with sleep.

  “Good morning, Little Xing.”

  Rubbing at his eyes, the boy looked at Feng with a rather indignant gaze. “You wouldn’t say that if you’d slept in a tree for more than a week.”

  Feng ruffled the boy’s hair. “Tell me what you’ve seen.”

  Little Xing crossed his arms over his chest. “I watch the airships and it’s always the same. Come night the windows go empty except for the men on guard and most of them fall asleep once they’re alone.”

  The news was good and it showed on Feng’s face. He gave the boy a hearty tap on his back, sending him on his way.

  When Feng reached Po’s Paper Factory he was reminded of the terrible imposition that the British and their shipments had put upon the people of his town. A business that had once been housed in a neat two room building was now conducted beneath awnings of oi
l-cloth lashed to tree trunks. Milling crowds made it difficult to catch Po’s eye. The older man finally found him at the edge of the crowd. “State your business, but don’t waste my time, Feng. We have orders to fill and you,” Po waggled a finger at him, “are little more than a distraction on a good day.”

  Feng brushed past Po, squeezed between the tables that crowded the floor and stopped where Su Yin assembled paper lanterns. “Tonight?” he whispered.

  Su Yin kept her eyes on the paper lantern, fingers avoiding the sharp wires that created its shape. As she reached for another length of wire she rewarded Feng with the slightest hint of a smile.

  The other girls giggled and Po’s expression soured like old milk. “You girls go back to work!” He waved his hand, bringing Feng to his side just as a British soldier walked by, his buttons winking in the remnants of sunlight.

  “We filled a number of orders yesterday.” Po’s forceful baritone, even softened to a whisper, drew Feng’s attention. “This will be quite the surprise.”

  Feng’s schooled his reaction to a simple nod. “It will. Are my deliveries ready?”

  “Now that’s the spirit. Get to work like the rest of us.” Po’s expression darkened as his eyes followed the soldier disappearing into the crowd. “Would you have thought this up if you still worked at the harbor?”

  Feng tensed. He didn’t like to talk about the past, how the airships had come and shut him out of work. “Something has to be done.”

  “If only the magistrate would do his job and enforce the laws,” Po sighed, “we’d be rid of their cargo.”

  “The English found their way around them,” Feng explained, the words scratching his throat, “the law says they can’t bring opium into the harbor.” The shifting light that slipped across the table tops drew his attention to the sky. Another airship marked with an English coat of arms was descending at the edge of town. “Because the airships can dock anywhere, they don’t need to bring cargo into the harbor. I have no ships to offload.”

  Po leaned closer, his breath wheezing on Feng’s cheek. “If they had left us our weapons, we’d face them man to man.”

  “Spears and swords?” Feng countered with a smile and a friendly hand on Po’s shoulder. “We’d be dead in the street with bullets in our bodies and they’d just bring in their own customers for the pipe.”

  Su Yin wrapped bundles of folded lanterns in plain brown paper and tied them with string. Feng tucked the packages under his arm and left.

  The second of his deliveries found him.

  “Feng!” The laughing sound of his name came from Wu Shen. Appearing at his elbow like a ghost from the grey fog of bodies, Wu’s bright smile was a welcome sight.

  Feng sorted through his remaining packages.

  “Later, later,” Wu waved him off. “Come.” Wu took his arm and led him into the crowd.

  Feng murmured apologies to the men he jostled, bowing slightly again and again as they moved to the side of the street. “You fixed your rickshaw?”

  “Fix? Why bother?” Wu waved as if he could send the very thought away like smoke. “Here,” Wu swept out his hand in a grand gesture at his rickshaw. “Look!”

  Feng looked under the rickshaw. The wheels were still broken and firmly stuck.

  Wu had built an engine for his rickshaw to carry men and opium from the British airships to the dens. The innovation, its boiler and crank too heavy for his humble conveyance, buckled the rickshaw’s wheels.

  Now, the same engine that had earned irate words from his wife was hard at work. Sitting atop the boiler was a multi-layered steamer. At each joint, a steady curtain of steam escaped into the air and the smells that caused Feng’s stomach to rumble promised that delicious bao was cooking inside.

  “Ah!” Feng nodded. “Ingenious!”

  Wu’s wife slapped her husband’s hand away from the cover. “We have paying customers!”

  “I’m making deliveries.” Feng reached into his pocket for some money. “I can pay for a bun.” A moment later, he looked up sheepishly for his fingers found nothing but a few strings and a piece of lint.

  “Come back when you can pay.” Wu’s wife turned on her husband, menacing him with bamboo tongs.

  Feng handed a package to Wu and bowing to the wife, he backed into the crowd.

  Behind his wife’s back, Wu lifted the cover off the steamer. He drew out a bun, tossing it high over the crowd into Feng’s outstretched hand.

  If there was a slight shake to his hands Feng believed it could be forgiven. In the last few months he had eaten little and slept even less. He’d lost his job to the men who brought opium into China and he’d be damned before he succumbed to it himself. Deliveries done, he strolled to the Opera House. Soon, he would meet Su Yin.

  The door was unlocked and he expected the Opera House to be empty giving him a quick access to the courtyard. It was just his luck that the British soldiers were having a party inside.

  Rice wine bottles littered the table amongst playing cards and coins. The biggest man was the one with the most ribbons decorating his uniform. He pointed a heavy finger at Feng and said something that vaguely reminded Feng of a question.

  When Feng only smiled, the man stood, nearly tipping the table and spilling coins to the floor. More words, and again, Feng smiled and nodded.

  He felt many eyes on him and growing frustration. They had weapons and he — he had only his two hands and his wits, but he knew a thing or two about music.

  The men watched him with caution as he removed a dusty tambur from the wall.

  “It’s quite simple,” he spoke even though they didn’t understand. “I’m here to cause trouble and I’m hoping you’ll try to stop me.”

  Feng crossed to the door at the back of the room, his fingers drawing out a plaintive tune from the tambur.

  Turning about, Feng knocked a soldier to the floor. The young man sputtered with outrage and looked about for help. Another soldier lunged and stopped for the end of the tambur was now tucked neatly under his chin. A sharp thrust and he was on the floor gasping for air.

  One soldier staggered forward and managed to land a punch. Momentum more than skill lead to the lucky strike but Feng’s foot tripped up the soldier, sending him sprawling into a stand of yunluo gongs. The reverberating crash disguised the advance of another man. Feng broke the tambur with a vicious snap and wrapped the strings around the man’s neck, cutting off his breath. Another pushed Feng against the wall, his angry fists cutting through the air with crisp blows that snatched the air from Feng’s lungs.

  Feng’s fingers found the solid wooden bow of a Jinghu fiddle and used it to play an entirely new instrument, eliciting shouts of pain from the soldier before tumbling him back onto the floor. The only sound from the soldier then was the hollow knock of his head.

  The bow in Feng’s hand looked as thin as a chopstick compared to the imposing figure of the last man. The soldier reached for Feng’s wrist and missed, opening his body for another kind of attack. Feng jabbed the pressure points on the man’s torso calling them out as he went. “Stomach, liver, kidney,” the man turned green and Feng gave him a triumphant smile, “and bladder.” The soldier crumpled to the floor.

  Feng grinned. “I told you I came to cause trouble.” He tapped on another fallen man’s head with the bow and said, “Be good and stay here for a bit while I finish what I came to do.”

  In the cover of darkness Feng sneaked into the Opera House’s courtyard. There had only been four ropes to untie and he finished in moments. That done, Feng scrambled up onto the roof of the Opera House.

  Su Yin crouched on the tiles, her clothes dark like the night sitting heavily around them both. Feng knelt and touched her arm.

  She started and covered his hand with her own. “The ropes?”

  Feng nodded. “It only took a moment to untie them. The ship is moving. Look.” He pointed to the airship before them in the ink-dark night. As they watched, the bulging hulk of canvas rose and drifted away from th
e town.

  Su Yin produced a small flute and bringing it to her lips she mimicked the song of a nightingale. Across the rooftops others echoed her call. She dropped the flute back into her pocket with a smile. “The other lines have been untied.”

  Somewhere below, the noisome boiler of Liu’s noodle factory blew its customary evening whistle and Feng turned to Su Yin.

  “Light the candle.”

  Her touch disappeared into the darkness and a moment later a candle flickered, half hidden behind the gentle curve of her hand.

  Holding the paper lantern’s frame with one hand, Feng used the other to lift its delicate walls away from the wick. Su Yin lit the wick with the candle. They both sighed with relief when the flame caught and grew in size. The flame licked the air and slowly the lantern inflated, glowing with a warm cheery light.

  Feng looked across the tiled and slanted rooftops, beyond the silver gilt of the moonlight, and saw scores of lanterns glowing in a field just beyond the town’s edge. He knew once he let this lantern go there was no turning back. He waited, timing the position of the airships as they drifted toward the harbor.

  When the last airship passed them by, a light appeared on its bridge. A face pressed against the window, eyes half-closed with sleep. Feng released the lantern and it floated up into the night, illuminating the face pressed against the airship’s window; the man followed its path with a curious look. When the lantern passed safely by the skin of the airship he smiled, relieved that any danger had passed.

  The lantern that rose from their rooftop had only been a signal. Now, the field stretching down to the harbor blossomed with light as hundreds of lanterns lifted into the air and swarmed about the loosed airships.

  Fire licked holes in canvas skins and guards raised the alarm as burning ships drifted away from the town and over the harbor.