But then the Partridge thought, Wait, that can’t be it. No one would mistake broken clay for silver or gold plating. The American had perfectly good eyesight, it would seem. So what was going on? Had this hapless priest stumbled upon Black Water River Meets the Sky itself, and not just the lesser pavilions? What he was describing sounded more like this mystical buried site than the towers that had already been excavated.
This was when the Partridge realized something might be wrong. Before he could hear any more, the boat shook violently, then swerved across the river so it lay horizontal. The hundred or so passengers lost their footing, tumbling this way and that, screaming in pain and confusion.
Worried about World’s End, the Partridge left the Russians and barged back through the crowd. His master was still upright, looking uneasy. “This isn’t good,” he said. “There’s something in the water.”
Indeed, the once-placid surface was now stirring like a boiling pot, spinning the ferry around in the middle of the river. The passengers, just getting to their feet, fell over again. Like a stage magician, the captain produced a pig’s head and dropped it overboard, followed by a platter of roast chicken. He then lit some incense and knelt on the deck, kowtowing to the river.
This ritual didn’t do the slightest bit of good. The boat continued churning, and nothing they did could induce it to move ahead. The captain suddenly knelt before the passengers, bowing again and again as he said, “Ladies and gentlemen, brothers and sisters, could an individual on this vessel have spoken some inauspicious words? The Dragon King appears to have taken you seriously, and if you don’t placate him, none of us will survive this. Which one of you was it? Don’t drag us all down with you.” His head thudded against the deck as he kowtowed.
Walls of water were closing in on them, and everyone was pale with fright. If someone really had said the unsayable, there was no way out of this.
Just as everyone was about to panic, a merchant hollered, “It was her, it was her! I heard her.”
They turned to see him dragging a young woman with a small child forward. “Her kid was raising a ruckus!” he shouted. “She got fed up, so she said she’d throw him into the river.”
The people around them were nodding to indicate they’d heard her too. The child had been sitting on the deck, howling away, and the woman had tried to comfort him, before finally snapping, “Stop that, or I’ll feed you to the fishes.”
Her dire warning didn’t do any good at all—the child kept making a racket, but at that moment, the boat had stopped moving forward and started spinning in place instead. The woman hadn’t seen much of the world and didn’t know how powerful words could be. When the accusing eyes bore down on her, she hugged her child, terrified, and slumped to the deck, now weeping too.
The captain crouched beside her. “Miss, how could you say something like that on board my boat? It’s too late now. The Dragon King heard you, and he’s waiting for you to drop your child into the water. If you don’t, we’re all finished.” With that, he snatched the child into his arms.
Naturally, the woman wasn’t able to just give up her own flesh and blood like that. She screeched and tried to grab her child back, but the captain was a burly man and fended her off easily. She turned beseechingly to the crowd around her, but they glared at her stone-faced, not lifting a finger. They all clearly thought that the child had to die, or else they all would, and there was nothing more to be said. Of course they felt sorry for the child, but the mother had to take the blame. Who asked her to spout such nonsense on a boat? Everyone knew you had to watch your words around the water gods. She’d brought this on herself.
World’s End looked on with a pang, and he was about to nudge the Partridge to say the two of them should step forward, when someone burst out of the crowd and grabbed the captain’s arm: the American priest.
Waving his copy of the Bible, he declared, “Captain, in the name of Christ, stop!”
If anyone else had tried to intervene, the captain would have knocked him out at once, but he didn’t dare offend a white man. Still, the boat was spinning perilously, and they could overturn at any moment. Glaring at the man, the captain snarled, “You stay out of this. If this kid doesn’t go into the river, the Dragon King will swallow all of us, and my boat too. When that happens, your little black book isn’t going to save our lives.”
The American was about to say something else, when one of the Russians, a stout, red-nosed man, pulled him aside. “Father Thomas, this isn’t any of your business. These are mystical Eastern rituals that might not make sense to us, but we have to let them do what they have to do. If not, we really might all drown.”
Father Thomas raged, “Mr. Andrei, I can’t believe you’d say such a thing. Only a demon would think it was right to throw this child into the river.”
While the two foreigners quarreled, the captain took advantage of their distraction to trip the woman up, and while she lay on the ground, he flung the child over the railing. The woman screeched and fainted dead away.
Before World’s End could shout at the Partridge to do something, the Partridge had already leaped forward. Although he generally kept to himself, he couldn’t bear to see this innocent child get killed. His flying-tiger claws were already out and hurtling through the air. These were made of superior steel, a set of razor-sharp blades articulated like a paw, hanging from a string so they could grab things from a distance. Now they swung overboard and snagged the boy’s clothes, and with a sharp flick, the Partridge had hauled him back on board.
The other passengers stared, slack-jawed. No sooner had this happened than all five Russians had their revolvers cocked and pointed right at the Partridge’s head.
The river was roiling ever more fiercely, and everyone was dizzy from the motion. They might go over any second now. The Russians had been in China long enough to understand that the captain’s words were no mere superstition, and if the river gods didn’t get the sacrifice they’d been promised, there was no way out of this situation. They had breathed a sigh of relief when the child went over, only to see him get pulled back, and they responded in the only way they knew: by drawing their guns to deal with this new threat.
Before any of them could pull the trigger, there was a mighty boom. Everyone ducked, then looked around wildly. Who had fired?
It was the Partridge again, imitating a gunshot as accurately as his animal cries that had so confused the cats. He picked up the child and tossed him to World’s End, then pulled out his Mauser pistol and started firing from the hip. The five Russians crashed to the deck, lying in a growing pool of blood.
The passengers stared, their faces the color of clay. Five people had died, just like that, from guns drawn in the blink of an eye. This strange man stank of death, and he’d murdered them all as if he were a demon rather than a human being. The Partridge didn’t care what anyone thought of him, and he quickly scooped up the corpses and tossed them overboard.
As the saying goes, even gods and ghosts are scared of evil men. The moment the Russians plunged into the river, the boat stopped spinning and could move forward again. The water slowly calmed and was soon smooth as before. The Partridge asked the captain to pull ashore.
Scared out of his wits, the man did as he was asked. He yelled at his crew to tack to the side and set down the gangplank when they got close enough to land.
Master World’s End handed the boy back to his mother, admonishing her to mind her language in the future or she might not be as lucky the next time. The Partridge had killed five people in cold blood, which wasn’t something they could smooth over. The best thing now would be for them to go undercover for the rest of their journey. As they disembarked, they brought the American priest with them. If they did encounter the army or police after this, it would be good to have a foreigner with them. Besides, he’d been the only one traveling with the Russians, and with the dead men’s
bodies at the bottom of the Yellow River, no one would be able to identify the deceased if the priest wasn’t around to bear witness.
The Partridge and World’s End stood on either side of the American, who walked along in a daze. Luckily, they weren’t far from the Helan Hills and would arrive in three or four days. The area was fairly deserted, and they were unlikely to run into anyone on the way.
Father Thomas, imagining he’d been kidnapped by a pair of ruthless killers, begged them to think of the Lord’s mercy, urging them to mend their ways, especially this old monk, who looked the picture of kindness. How could he take part in this abduction at his advanced age? Wouldn’t it be better if he converted to Christianity, a religion that promised eternal life?
Three days later, the American priest came to the conclusion that they weren’t actually kidnapping him—they seemed to be on their way somewhere, making a beeline for the northwest. Unable to fathom what was going on, he finally asked what they intended to do with him.
“You were tricked by those Russians,” the Partridge said bluntly. “Didn’t you see all those tools they had with them? They were planning to loot the treasures of Black Water City. When they heard you’d been there, they asked you to show them the way and would definitely have killed you once they arrived, to make sure you kept your silence. I saved your life. You can relax—I don’t believe in slaughtering innocent people. When we’ve taken care of our business in Black Water City, we’ll let you go. Right now, we’re just trying to make sure there isn’t any trouble before that.”
The priest seemed calmer. “You drew your pistol at the speed of lightning,” he said. “It was quite a sight. I’d been thinking there was something fishy about those Russians too. They said they were planning to go into mining, but I guess it makes sense that it was looting they had in mind. And now, God will punish them.”
The Partridge asked Father Thomas if he could describe the Buddhist towers one more time.
“What? Don’t tell me you’re planning to dig up the treasures yourself?”
The Partridge decided he liked this American enough to tell him the truth. “Not at all. There’s something important I need from there. It’s the difference between life and death for my tribe. It’s a big secret, so I can’t tell you any more.”
“Okay,” the American said, nodding. “I’ll believe you. Here’s what I know. Many years ago, I visited the ruins of Black Water City. I was hiking across the desert nearby when I stepped into a patch of quicksand. I thought my time had come to meet my maker, but instead, I was sucked down into an underground chamber, some sort of prayer hall. It was full of gleaming statues of the Buddha. I was hurrying to spread the word of the Lord, so I didn’t stop for a closer look. If I went back there now, I’m not sure I could tell you the exact spot. But it’s close to Black Water City, maybe six or seven kilometers away.”
This jibed with what the Partridge knew. So it seemed this temple was close to the surface, and as long as they got the location right, it would be easy to dig a tunnel down into it.
The legend of Black Water River Meets the Sky was that it contained a giant reclining Buddha, beneath which was a mausoleum that had never received its intended body, but instead became a secret repository for the Western Xia Kingdom’s treasures. The Partridge was heading for this spot.
Black Water City would be easy to find—there were many broken buildings remaining aboveground, and holy towers signaling its location from a distance, still rising majestically into the air. It was almost dusk when they got to the ruins, the gray outlines of the distant mountains still visible in the distance.
This ruined city was completely silent in the dusk, as if every living thing there had been snuffed out a moment ago, leaving a desolate atmosphere. Impossible to imagine this had once been such an important metropolis for the Western Xia dynasty.
Here they were: a Buddhist monk, a Christian missionary, and a fake Taoist priest. A bizarre trio, on their way to find the hidden wealth of a lost dynasty.
Near Black Water City, they watched silently as the moon spilled its cold light over the earth. They were in the high plains of the northwest, and the air was thin. A million stars glittered overhead—more of them, glowing much more brightly, than back at sea level.
World’s End looked up, got out his feng shui board, and began calculating their gold-divining coordinates. Above them were the constellations of the Giant Door, the Hungry Wolf, the Guiding Star. And on the ground was the meridian of the dragonfly, which at that moment told him exactly where they needed to be.
Fixing his eyes on the spot, the old monk led the Partridge and Father Thomas through the moonlight. Pointing at the place, he said, “This is it, the great hall of the Black Water River Meets the Sky Temple. But I have to warn you, there seems to be something else buried here: a one-eyed dragon.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
Not understanding the language of feng shui, the Partridge seemed bewildered, then asked, “What’s a one-eyed dragon?”
Staring into the moonlight, World’s End explained, “Beneath the ground here lies a sort of tunnel we call a dragon—but a much smaller one than usual, and there’s only one opening through which air can pass. This is known as a one-eyed dragon, or sometimes as a dragonfly meridian. The purple mist and three stars, if clear and shapely, belong to the loyal warrior. But if mighty and fierce, they belong to the conquering army. If the purple mist is like a tree, its roots will tangle your feet; if like a hill, swollen on the surface, it’s about to explode. In any case, these are ill omens. Because the Black Water River altered its course, the structure of this cave has long been compromised. This precious eye of the dragon is now a cancerous tumor. If someone were buried here, their descendants would be in trouble.” He pointed up at the thin sliver of the new moon. “We didn’t consult the almanac before we came, and yet look, even the moon is barely present. Buddha himself is shutting his eye.”
The Partridge had unsurpassed courage and had been seeking the eye of the divine for many years; it was a search that had consumed his tribe for millennia. How could he bear to wait a day, with the temple beneath his feet? He said to the monk, “The legend says the treasure is in an empty tomb. If no one is buried there, then we don’t need to worry about the rules—it’s not actually a grave without a body. So I’m going to get my shovel out and dig a hole, grab what I need, and leave. We’ll just be careful, and nothing will go wrong.”
World’s End thought about it and had to agree—perhaps he had been overcautious. This was a treasure vault, not a burial site, so the normal rules didn’t apply. They didn’t even need to worry about lighting a candle or the three forbidden heists. He nodded his assent.
The Partridge got a metal club from his bag. Its hollow center had a mechanism in it, and its surface had been rubbed shiny and smooth by frequent use. Who knew how many hands it had passed through? Next, he pulled out nine steel blades, which fitted like flower petals into grooves down the length of the club, specially designed to clamp firmly around them as soon as they were inserted. Finally, he clicked a revolving handle to the end of the implement, and now it was a whirlwind digger, one of the best tools for entering a tomb. It could expand or shrink at will, adjusting to the size of the tunnel it was digging.
While the Partridge got to work with the digger, he asked Father Thomas to help clear away the mounds of dirt it was leaving behind. The American priest obeyed, grumbling, “Didn’t you say you’d let me go once we got to this place? Now it seems you have all kinds of little activities lined up for me. You have to understand that Western priests such as myself are servants of the Lord; we don’t normally engage in manual labor.”
Neither the Partridge nor World’s End could understand what this foreigner was mumbling about, so they ignored him, focusing instead on the tunnel opening up before them. In the time it took to smoke a pipe, the digger had reached the roof of the bur
ied temple, revealing a patch of green crystal tiles like gleaming fish scales. Along the gutters were carved figures of the arhats, much grander than any normal building. You could tell at once that this must have been a magnificent structure.
The Partridge lifted a dozen tiles out of the sand pit he’d created and flung them to one side. Lowering his lantern on a string, he saw rows of wooden rafters, and beneath them an awe-inspiring great-man chamber. The “great man” was what Buddhist disciples respectfully called the Shakyamuni Buddha, because like a great warrior, he feared nothing. With his infinite power, he’d defeated the four demons of darkness, rage, death, and power. The lantern didn’t quite reach the far corners of the hall, but the Partridge could just about make out a “three-bodied Buddha” in his incarnations of mortality, karma, and transformation, with bodhisattvas on either side.
Buddhism had been on the ascent during the Western Xia dynasty, so it was natural that this temple would be on a grand scale. The Partridge nodded at World’s End to say it was fine to go in. He normally worked alone, and had planned to enter first, but World’s End had argued that this treasure trove was almost certainly booby-trapped, and gold hunters were skilled at seeking out such dangers, so it made sense for the two of them to go in at the same time. This would be a further step in their cooperation.
And so the two men each took a heart-stilling tablet, washing it down with a flask of sky dew. These were precautions to keep themselves from losing consciousness in the stagnant air of underground places. Then, with their charms around their necks, black cloths across their faces, water-fire shoes on their feet, and tools firmly in place, they prepared to enter.
The Dragon Ridge Tombs Page 16
