it?’ Teng cried after his retreating Father.
Deng Nan-shi did not answer.
A week later, Teng perched on the shell of a giant tortoise. The stone statue was ancient, Guardian of the Crossroads halfway up Monkey Hat Hill and a very stern tortoise indeed.
Over the last few days there had been a fury of packing in Yun Shu’s house: wagons pulled by donkeys or some of His Excellency Jebe Khoja’s immense herd of horses, accompanied by resentful soldiers tired of tramping up and down Monkey Hat Hill. Nearly all the Salt Minister’s possessions – and he had gathered an astonishing collection of valuables – had rolled through derelict districts of the city to Prince Arslan’s walled palace.
As Teng waited he noticed Hsiung coming towards him, kicking moodily at stones. He was tempted to ignore his faithless friend, but only for a moment.
‘Hsiung!’ he called, leaping onto the road. ‘I’m over here! Sit with me on the tortoise!’ The servant boy examined him so coldly Teng regretted his warmth. ‘That is,’ he added, haughtily, ‘if you like.’
It seemed Hsiung did like, though he chose not to acknowledge his master’s son. The two boys perched side by side on the stone shell, looking every possible way except at each other.
‘Do you think they’ll leave soon?’ asked Teng, when he could bear the silence no more.
‘Maybe.’
‘But you must know!’
‘Maybe.’
‘You’re hopeless.’
Mild and ineffectual as such a rebuke seemed it had a gratifying effect.
‘All right,’ said Hsiung, ‘I do know.’
Teng settled back on the tortoise’s neck, satisfied to have gained his point. It was one of autumn’s last kind days. Clouds of migrating birds blurred the horizons of the lake.
‘Why are they leaving the Hill?’ asked Teng. ‘Why leave a big mansion for a small house in Prince Arslan’s palace?’
Hsiung shrugged. Recently his voice had acquired a casual, soldierly drawl.
‘No choice. Too many officials killed by Red Turbans this summer. Bastard bandits!’ He paused to examine the effect of such hot language on the scholar’s son. ‘So the big bugs must live in a safe place.’
‘How do you know?’ asked Teng, scornfully. ‘Did Salt Minister Gui tell you?’
Hsiung spat proudly. ‘Sergeant P’ao tells me.’
The noise of wheels, hooves, feet, voices interrupted them.
‘Here they come!’ cried Teng, standing upright on the tortoise shell. Hsiung rose with him.
First a dozen soldiers led by Sergeant P’ao. At the sight of Hsiung some winked and waggled their eyebrows so that the boy flushed with importance. Then he wept silently to see his heroes march away. Next came the Salt Minister’s personal palanquin, its curtains drawn. Another followed, similarly shrouded – presumably belonging to Golden Lotus. A larger, open carriage gaudy with tassels carried Yun Shu’s two brothers and an aging tutor. More wagons of boxes and furniture followed, surrounded by a dozen porters with burdens so huge they resembled camels. Last of all, carts of servants.
Teng stared at the very final wagon. ‘Hsiung,’ he whispered, ‘do you see?’
Amidst a gaggle of maids perched their friend, Yun Shu, her clothes shabby, hair ill-tended. Teng realised it was over three months since he last saw her – and had so bitterly reproached the girl. All that anger was gone. Now he felt a need to acknowledge her. Perhaps that was why he stepped into the road, staring up into the crowded wagon.
‘Yun Shu!’ he called. As he could think of nothing else, he shouted: ‘Farewell! Do not forget us! Farewell!’
Teng caught a hot, resentful flicker from the corner of her eyes. Then she was past, trundling down the Hill, out of Monkey Hat Ward. He stood in the lane until the last carriage vanished through the ward gate.
‘Good riddance!’ he cried. ‘Good riddance!’
He whispered in case anyone heard: ‘Traitors!’
Stray yellow leaves fluttered down from a nearby tree. When Teng turned
Deng Nan-shi did not answer.
A week later, Teng perched on the shell of a giant tortoise. The stone statue was ancient, Guardian of the Crossroads halfway up Monkey Hat Hill and a very stern tortoise indeed.
Over the last few days there had been a fury of packing in Yun Shu’s house: wagons pulled by donkeys or some of His Excellency Jebe Khoja’s immense herd of horses, accompanied by resentful soldiers tired of tramping up and down Monkey Hat Hill. Nearly all the Salt Minister’s possessions – and he had gathered an astonishing collection of valuables – had rolled through derelict districts of the city to Prince Arslan’s walled palace.
As Teng waited he noticed Hsiung coming towards him, kicking moodily at stones. He was tempted to ignore his faithless friend, but only for a moment.
‘Hsiung!’ he called, leaping onto the road. ‘I’m over here! Sit with me on the tortoise!’ The servant boy examined him so coldly Teng regretted his warmth. ‘That is,’ he added, haughtily, ‘if you like.’
It seemed Hsiung did like, though he chose not to acknowledge his master’s son. The two boys perched side by side on the stone shell, looking every possible way except at each other.
‘Do you think they’ll leave soon?’ asked Teng, when he could bear the silence no more.
‘Maybe.’
‘But you must know!’
‘Maybe.’
‘You’re hopeless.’
Mild and ineffectual as such a rebuke seemed it had a gratifying effect.
‘All right,’ said Hsiung, ‘I do know.’
Teng settled back on the tortoise’s neck, satisfied to have gained his point. It was one of autumn’s last kind days. Clouds of migrating birds blurred the horizons of the lake.
‘Why are they leaving the Hill?’ asked Teng. ‘Why leave a big mansion for a small house in Prince Arslan’s palace?’
Hsiung shrugged. Recently his voice had acquired a casual, soldierly drawl.
‘No choice. Too many officials killed by Red Turbans this summer. Bastard bandits!’ He paused to examine the effect of such hot language on the scholar’s son. ‘So the big bugs must live in a safe place.’
‘How do you know?’ asked Teng, scornfully. ‘Did Salt Minister Gui tell you?’
Hsiung spat proudly. ‘Sergeant P’ao tells me.’
The noise of wheels, hooves, feet, voices interrupted them.
‘Here they come!’ cried Teng, standing upright on the tortoise shell. Hsiung rose with him.
First a dozen soldiers led by Sergeant P’ao. At the sight of Hsiung some winked and waggled their eyebrows so that the boy flushed with importance. Then he wept silently to see his heroes march away. Next came the Salt Minister’s personal palanquin, its curtains drawn. Another followed, similarly shrouded – presumably belonging to Golden Lotus. A larger, open carriage gaudy with tassels carried Yun Shu’s two brothers and an aging tutor. More wagons of boxes and furniture followed, surrounded by a dozen porters with burdens so huge they resembled camels. Last of all, carts of servants.
Teng stared at the very final wagon. ‘Hsiung,’ he whispered, ‘do you see?’
Amidst a gaggle of maids perched their friend, Yun Shu, her clothes shabby, hair ill-tended. Teng realised it was over three months since he last saw her – and had so bitterly reproached the girl. All that anger was gone. Now he felt a need to acknowledge her. Perhaps that was why he stepped into the road, staring up into the crowded wagon.
‘Yun Shu!’ he called. As he could think of nothing else, he shouted: ‘Farewell! Do not forget us! Farewell!’
Teng caught a hot, resentful flicker from the corner of her eyes. Then she was past, trundling down the Hill, out of Monkey Hat Ward. He stood in the lane until the last carriage vanished through the ward gate.
‘Good riddance!’ he cried. ‘Good riddance!’
He whispered in case anyone heard: ‘Traitors!’
Stray yellow leaves fluttered down from a nearby tree. When Teng turned
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