Looking For Goats, Finding Monkeys Read online



  Looking For Goats, Finding Monkeys

  The first Dao Shi story

  by

  I.F Rowan

  Copyright © 2011 I.F Rowan

  All rights reserved. No part of this book or site may be reproduced or redistributed in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without permission in writing from the author.

 

  Looking For Goats, Finding Monkeys

  I blew out the candle, and the room went dark. I could hear water dripping from the edges of the bronze bowl that sat in the centre of the table. I could hear the quick breaths of the woman, the studiedly calm breathing of her husband, and I could hear no sound from the children at all. I let a small pebble roll from the folds of my sleeve into my hand. The family waited. I sat patiently for another minute. Then I tossed the pebble into the water and the bowl erupted into a fizzing, crackling frenzy.

  The mother screamed, the father let out a grunt, the children said nothing.

  "Be calm," I said. "They are upon us. Be calm and remain still. Remain where you are and all will be well."

  The pebble spluttered around in the bowl for a few moments and then the sound died away. I made some doggerel up on the spot and chanted it solemnly, letting the final notes reverberate in my throat. Then silence. I let it stretch on and on until the point when I judged that one of the family was about to give in and speak, and then I kicked the underside of the table. Hard.

  I had to raise my voice to a roar to be heard above the panic; the children had obviously forsaken their vow of silence.

  "Be calm, they are upon us now and we must be strong. I cast this dust into the air that it may blow away in the night and take these restless spirits with it like sand in a typhoon. As it is written in the ancient carvings of the hidden temples which must not be named, so I do dare speak it." And so on, for a full minute of sacred oaths and hidden catacombs and vengeful elementals and other fantasies. Paint the grains gold, and a fool will sell you a horse for a small bag of rice.

  I spoke the last few words, something to do with the fiery eyes of the mountain god Li-Shen. It was the one part of my performance that I had not invented. I had been browsing through manuscripts in a dusty shop owned by a dusty man when I came across a volume of Sacred And Ancient Rites of Exorcism, or some such nonsense. I did not buy it—I was there looking for some of the exquisite illustrated works of erotica that Dah-Lang produced before he went mad and took to living in a barrel, not dry superstitious nonsense—but one phrase from it stuck in my mind, and I added it to my mumbo-jumbo. A touch of verisimilitude that amused me.

  I tossed another pebble into the bowl. As it hit the water it let out a piercing shriek and burst into a brilliant green light which vanished as quickly as it had flared, dazzling the eyes and leaving incandescent clouds floating across the darkness. Unless you had shut your eyes in readiness, of course. I clapped my hands as loudly as I could, once, twice, three times. Then there was darkness and silence. I waited a few seconds more, and then struck a sulphur match along the edge of the table, lifting it as it flared so that it illuminated my solemn face.

  I paused. Not too long though: once I had let the match burn my fingers, and remaining dignified had become a true test of my talents.

  "It is done," I said. I leant forward and lit the candle. "They are gone." As I uttered the last word I pulled the match up to my lips, one side of my solemn face in shadow, the other lit by the flame.

  "Gone," I said again, paused, and blew the match out.

  The family sighed as one. I leant back in my chair and smiled benevolently, stroking my beard.

  "Don't worry, children. It is all over." Four eyes blinked at me. To be quite honest (an art in which I sometimes lack practice) I would rather the mother and father had left the children with an aunt, or despatched them to the market to fetch some stringy mutton. An exorcism was no place for children, even if it was only smoke and chemical salts and much stentorian chanting in the deepest voice that years of practice could achieve. Foolish, superstitious mother and father though, convinced that their bad luck and curdled milk and broken tools were the work of a mischievous and restless ancestor, insisted that the children be present.

  "They're not too young to learn the lessons of the real world," pronounced dull-witted father. "They'll sit where they're told and not argue," snapped shrewish mother. And so the children sat, clutching each other's hands, terrified by the smoke and the chanting and their parents' fear.

  I smiled at the children with my most encouraging avuncular smile. The little girl burst into tears.

  "Open the shutters, honoured father," I commanded. "Let the cleansing light of the sun shine in on this most purified of homes."

  As the man moved ponderously from window to window, pulling away the wooden boards, I gathered together my charms and accoutrements and magic sticks and pieces of holy rock. When enough of the boards had been removed to let the light in, I slowly lifted my hand and pointed to the brass bowl which sat in the middle of the table. The water in it had turned a deep blood red.

  "There," I said. "Therein lies the remains on this plane of the spirit which plagued your hearth. I have banished its incorporeal form to a plane many times separated from here by icy wastes and fiery seas. Its corporeal form I have bound to that water. I shall remove it from this place, and pour it into the dust of a crossroads with much solemn chanting according to the most ancient of sacred rites."

  "And our house will be free?" the father asked.

  "Your house will be free." I fastened the lid on to the brass bowl, and rose to my feet. The mother waved her hand imperiously at her husband and he stumbled across the room, bent down and fumbled with the floorboards under the stove, and returned with some bronze coins. I bowed my thanks, put the coins into my purse, carefully lifted the bowl and walked out without another word. The milk would still curdle,the tools would still break, but now they would blame his clumsiness, her housekeeping, and not vengeful sprites or malevolent ancestors. When you have a goat, and your flowers are eaten, you don't look for a monkey to blame.