Looking For Goats, Finding Monkeys Page 2

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  Only one full change of the moon later, one hazy summer afternoon when the heat baked cracks in the roads and every breath provided just a little bit less air than was needed, the monkey found me.

  I had not worked for a few days. The exorcising of an imagined malicious uncle of a minor nobleman had bought me a few days rest. I spent most of the first day eating, most of the first night drinking, and most of the next day in the welcoming bed of one of Mother Shen's girls. This delightful cycle repeated itself for a few days, but in the end the old serpents raised their cunning heads and I was powerless to resist. I forsook the warm, soft sheets and warmer, softer girl for a hard wooden chair in a smoky, dimly-lit room, where moon tiles clicked and clacked as they were laid down on the rough wooden table, and small fortunes were won and lost. Lost, in my case.

  So I found myself back in search of work rather sooner than I might have wished. Business was slack in the city: the spirit world had taken a back seat to the physical world. For days a stream of dust-caked soldiers with haunted eyes had come stumbling back through the city gates, mumbling stories of the supposedly invincible Golden Army being slaughtered like cattle, of the sound like thunder that presaged another horde of the horse-borne barbarians pouring over a hill, of the one prisoner set free by the barbarians, released to bear the message back that one day the thunder would be heard at the gates of the Eternal Palace itself.

  In times like these there was less call for my services. I made polite enquiries with the local watch in all parts of the city, hung my banner in the major markets, ate only soup with bread, and waited. Eventually my patience was rewarded. I had returned from a wasted visit to a particularly surly watch captain, who had told me that any evil revenants in his streets would be dealt with by cold steel and hot courage, and found one of the local street boys sitting on my porch.

  "Be gone, louse of the most infested monkey," I growled. "I have no work for you today. I have no work for you any day."

  He grinned insolently and toothlessly at me, and did not move from my porch. I may be a manipulator of the gullible, but even in my darkest hours I do not stoop so low as those charlatans who buy the teeth from children's mouths to grind up and sell to impotent rich merchants as curative powders. I do stoop low enough, however, to kick children who should have more respect for their elders.

  I had led him by his ear to the road before he finally managed to inform me that he was not loitering outside my humble residence solely for the purpose of annoyance, but because he carried a message for me. I set him down, scolded him for not telling me straight away, and headed off his passionate protests of mortal injury by fumbling in my purse. He eyed the coin greedily, but I held my hand up in the air.

  "The message first, child of a rat."

  "How do I know you'll give me the money?"

  "If I give you the money, born-to-hang, how do I know you'll give me the message?"

  He thought about this, and then nodded and produced a dirty piece of parchment from within an even dirtier shirt. He handed it over, and waited while I puzzled over the ill-educated scrawl. A farmer from outside the city walls, a house with strange smells and noises and a plague of bad luck undoubtedly the work of a cursed and tormented ancestor, humbly requested my esteemed services at my soonest convenience, pledged payment and eternal gratitude, forever my most humble—and so it went on in this vein, until the author ran out of flattery. I held the coin out to the boy, but as he reached to grab it I raised it just out of his reach again.

  "A message back—the man who sent you will pay you for it. Just tell him, I come tomorrow."

  "Tomorrow, you come tomorrow." The boy nodded again, dancing from foot to foot. I brought down my hand and the coin and the boy were both gone within an instant, racing away down the street.

  I folded the parchment away into my robe, and decided that this evening I would eat more than soup and bread, and this night I would spend in one of Mother Shen's many rooms. But no moon tiles. Not a single season's turn.

  I dallied in bed late into the next morning, and then, after a fortifying lunch of fruit and rice I took the road out of the old city. The sun shone down hard on my back, and I was thankful for my broad-brimmed hat. The roads were full of people trudging to and from markets, oxen patiently hauling carts piled high with an entire family's possessions, dogs darting in and out of the cartwheels and sniffing at fly-covered piles on the road, children running to and fro, chasing the dogs and the flies and being ignored by the patient oxen. As I passed by a tree which shaded the roadside with its branches I saw a young man sitting under it with his head bowed down, palms outstretched, ragged trousers ending, like his legs, just above the knee. A scroll was tacked to the tree, the characters gouged into the paper:

  I was a leaping tiger,

  Now I am a lame goat.

  For you I fought.

  Remember me.

  I stood for a moment, taking a drink from my flask, swilling the road dust from my mouth. The crowds moved on and on along the street, an unending river of noise and smell. Apart from the occasional sideways glance, or the brief curious stare of a child before his father bellowed him away, they gave him nothing. As did I. I had nothing to give. Perhaps when I returned from my work this day, the young man would still be under the tree, and I could give him a few coppers, pay for his dinner, pay off my conscience. He must have felt the strength of my gaze, because he lifted his head and looked directly at me—through me—for a few seconds, and then his head dropped again. I walked on, my eyes blurring with tears. That empty hollow look was the same look that I had seen in the eyes of my son when he returned from the fighting in the mountains, the only look I ever saw him wear in those brief weeks before he went back to the mountains and died.

  The hustle of the crowd drew me out of the city. After a while the crowds thinned out, and as I walked along the dusty road, the random piling of shack and shop and bar and house settled into an orderly row of small wooden houses. Gradually these became spaced further apart, and the land that lay between them was filled with small rows of vegetables, the odd tethered goat, strutting flocks of chickens. After I had crossed the river bridge, I counted the houses along on my left. At the fifth I stopped. I straightened my posture, ran my fingers through my beard, furrowed my brow, ceased to be the weary traveller and became the wise defender of the innocent against the evil. I walked quietly to the door of the house and listened. I could hear a woman's voice, talking quickly, and the occasional low mumble of a man in reply. From somewhere in the field behind the house I could hear the occasional excited cry of children, sounding like little birds. I raised my fist and beat on the door in a measured and forceful rhythm. Time for the lead coin to dress in a coat of gold.

  The family were suitably impressed. They gathered humbly around the table while I sat in the father's chair and discoursed about the evil that spirits can do if left unchecked. I threw in some veiled references to things that were best not talked about, and the father nodded in agreement. It always amuses me how saying nothing can be taken as meaning so much. I laid out my paraphernalia, the copper bowl, wands and charms, mysterious bundles of silk wrapped around various roots, a deep red polished stone. I drew the warding marks on the floor with chalk, I instructed them as to where they should sit, that they should keep silent, and of the importance of not touching anything lest the spirit enter them through it. When this was done, I ordered the father, a stout man named Deng, to fasten the boards to the windows.

  "We must have darkness." I commanded. "We must have darkness lest the spirits be revealed to you and you are driven to sorrowful madness, tearing your hair and beating your chest and ripping your clothes for ever more."

  Deng paid great attention to the fitting of the boards, stuffing any chinks with rag, making sure that every last ray of the sun was excluded. I lit the candle on the table, illuminating myself and the tools of my deceptive trade and throwing the rest of the room into a darkness where shadows seemed to
ebb and flow and whisper. The family sat around the far side of the table, the mother holding her children's hands.

  "Now," I whispered. "Now shall I begin this ritual, which will cleanse your hearth of the evils within it. Be brave, father, mother, be brave little ones. Be brave and trust in the power that I wield, power that has been passed down from great-grandfather to grandfather, from grandfather to father, from father to me. Trust in the power, and remember: touch not a thing."

  I leant forward to blow out the candle and start my performance, and that's when I realised that something was very wrong. As I bent forward, with a serious expression and a furrowed brow, I felt air move coldly past my cheek and the candle flame was blown out out before I could open my lips.

  I froze, half sitting, half standing. Had I just imagined it? A draught maybe, perhaps the late afternoon winds had blown down early from the mountains, curled their way through the fields and houses, through lanes and fences, until one breeze reached Deng's house, slid around the outside, caressing the rough planks until it found a gap in the shutters which the foolish farmer had not fitted properly, and then blew the candle out. Must have blown the candle out.

  I began to breathe again. The family had not noticed anything. I took a deep breath, to steady my nerves.

  "I come here this day in the tradition of my father, and my most honoured father's father, and my father's father's most venerable father—"

  Before I reached another generation of my most venerable and honoured ancestors—horse thieves and drunkards for the most part—I felt the cold movement of air against my cheek again, and then the banging started.

  It was at that point that events started to become somewhat confused. The whole frame of the house shook as if a giant hammer was striking at its foundations, and between each blow the children and Deng's wife screamed, and Deng muttered oaths which children really ought not to hear

  Then, there was silence, a silence so shocking after the din that at first I thought that I had become deaf. Out of this silence though, rose a small delicate sound, like a flower blooming in the desert. One of the children was sobbing gently, trying to stifle the sounds in her throat, but failing.

  All else was still.

  "Deng," I said, attempting to keep my voice as calm and level as I could. "Deng. Take the children and your wife and get out."

  The family did not move. We all sat there in the dark.

  "Deng, now while it is quiet. I will, ah, I will ward off this evil spirit, while you and your family flee."

  A sound came from over by the door. A rough and scratchy sound, like nails being dragged down a rough wooden plank. I think it was a chuckle. I heard someone rise, heard frightened yelps from both the children and a cry of pain from one as their parents dragged them from their seats. A door behind the seats creaked open, and then bang, it was shut and I was alone.

  Silence again, which seemed to stretch on for minutes, hours, days. Then another wheezing chuckle from the direction of the door which led to the light of the outside world. I heard a sob and realised that Deng and his family were still behind the door which they had fled through.

  "Get away," I said, or at least I meant to. What came out was a wordless croak. I swallowed and tried again.

  "Get away. Flee the house. Now!"

  "We can't." The anger in Deng's wife's voice cut through the sound of her fear. "We are in the larder. Do something, wise man."

  I thought hard. It's difficult to think, when the sensible part of your mind is screaming what is it? what is it? in your ear, and your legs are twitching and jerking involuntarily, wanting to run, run far and fast, further and faster than any middle-aged man has ever run. But to run you need a door, and from this room there were only three doors. Behind one, a frightened family, some sacks of rice, a few bags of flour, several hanging ducks and a bottle of rice spirits for special occasions. Behind another, the family's sleeping quarters. Behind the third, the sweet light of the afternoon. But somewhere in the darkness, between that door and me, was something which appeared from nowhere, blew out candles, and then laughed at me. Something which I was increasingly certain I could name. I had been exorcising houses, barns, brothels, taverns, barracks, the occasional mansion and uncountable shacks for nearly six years. I had cleansed these properties of any number of imps, sprites, ancestral spirits, vengeful demons, and wild elementals (in ascending order of cost). Or at least, the people who paid me believed that I had.

  I knew better. I had cleansed the houses, barns, brothels, taverns, barracks, mansions and shacks of fear, that was all. I am an educated man. I used to write histories, until my history writing brought me up against a threat from a most present source, and I had to abandon my career. A writer of history may build his writings from ghosts, but they are paper ghosts only, the characters of the past mere ink scratches on paper. A sweep of a pen this way, the stroke of the brush that, and I brought them alive. Alive, but in imagination only, not in a form which sat and stank and scratched and blew and chuckled. I had kept food in my belly (and even more in the bellies of the countless others I lost to at the moon tiles table) by hunting ghosts, by banishing ghosts, by dismissing ghosts, by vanquishing ghosts. But I never believed in them. I was an educated man.

  So now I sat, an educated man in the dark, alone in a room with something that my heart told me was that which I believed did not exist. What had I to defend myself, but the reason of an educated man. And I could not reason with something I could not see. So I fumbled in my pocket for another match, struck it on the edge of the table, and lit the candle.

  Then I believed.

  The ghost was, I realised instantly, some distant ancestor of the family. Deformed though it was, it had a look of Deng about its narrow eyes, and full chin. I can confirm that the stories of the ill-bred peasants are true, and that the elegant romances of the courtly story-tellers are lies. This ghost was no romantic apparition cloaked in an ethereal glow, clutching a pale hand to its heart as it declaimed (in the fashionable metre of the day, of course) the wrongs which must be put right before it could rest beyond the spheres. It was hairy and deformed and coarse, with malevolent yellow eyes and a stink of the grave, more monkey than noble spirit. To add to the effect, it grinned at me, displaying broken and stained teeth and then belched. A stench like rotten meat filled the room. The ghost shifted itself, arranging its stumpy limbs in a parody of a vain young nobleman posing for one of the portrait painters who worked in the streets by the Temple, dashing off likenesses with a few deft brush strokes.

  It shuffled about, its long nails scratching on the wooden floor. Suddenly, with a surprising turn of speed for a creature which looked so broken, it loped over to the far corner of the room, several precious paces away from the door to the outside. Unfortunately though, my legs had abandoned their impulsive desire to run, and were now clinging to the chair I sat on, as if the solid wood of the chair had spread out and into my legs. The ghost scratched itself with a pleasurable vigour, like a dog with fleas. I could hear its nails scratching against its coarse, hairy skin. It looked at me, looked pointedly at the door, and then back at me, grinning savagely as if to say I dare you, try it. Perhaps immediate flight was not my best choice of action. For the first time in my life, I did not know what to do. Man of reason, I told myself. Educated man. Scholar. So reason.

  The ghost squatted in the corner. It blinked its yellow eyes, yawned ostentatiously, inspected its dirty brown fingernails. I could hear Deng's wife whispering behind the wooden door, calming the children, trying to keep the fear from her voice.

  I dug in the hidden slit in the back of my leather belt, and pulled out my gold coin, nearly tearing off a fingernail in the process. The ghost watched curiously. I shuffled forward a few nervous steps, bowed down, placing the coin on the floor between us, and then shuffled backwards to the table. The ghost sat there for a minute, regarding the coin, and then with ferocious speed it shot forward, snatched up the coin and jumped back to the corner. It held th
e coin up, inspected it, and then tossed it into its mouth. The ghost's jaws worked furiously for a few seconds, and then it spat the coin back at me. The bent and twisted coin landed at my feet, spinning only twice before stopping. It was shiny and wet. I did not pick it up.

  The door to the outside, and the door to the rest of the house were within easy reach of the ghost. The windows were not an option; Deng, following my careful instructions had firmly nailed stout wooden boards across the inside of the frames.

  The ghost yawned and started to wander towards me, nails scrabbling on the wooden floor. It had finished its games, and was now going to end matters. I backed against the wooden door of the larder. I could hear the children whimpering behind it, and I thought of my son. The ghost was close enough now that I could smell its acrid stench. It reminded me of dust and mould, thick in my nostrils, and I thought of a small dusty shop, a hot day, a discarded book with peeling binding.

  "By the fiery eyes of the mountain god Li-Shen I command you to return to the plane from which you came!"

  I am not sure who was more surprised, the ghost or me. It skittered backwards across the floor, yelping as if I had just struck it a blow across its face. Encouraged by this, I repeated the words. Again the ghost was forced back, but this time not as far, and the yelp was more of a snarl. The incantation obviously lost its power if used more than once. If I had paid more attention to that book, bought it even, I would know the rest, I would drive this vile creature from the house, but I did not buy the book, I could not remember any more. I was left naked, defenceless, an ageing man with no real talent other than the ability to deceive.

  To deceive.

  "By the fiery eyes of the mountain god Li-shen I command you to return to the plane from which you came, by the sacred beard of the oldest of all the gods I banish you from this world of light, by the holy waters of the Pool of Great Mysteries I bring pain down upon your being!"

  As I spoke I closed my eyes for a moment, aware that if this failed, the next thing that I would feel would be the rotten teeth of the ghost on my throat. I heard a thrashing sound, and I opened my eyes. The ghost was over at the window, flailing its misshapen limbs at the shutters nailed on by Deng. The few words from the book had convinced it that I had the genuine powers of exorcism. The irony was not lost on me. It seemed that creatures from beyond this world are just as susceptible to deceit as fools of this world like Deng. Once convinced, the ghost's own fear did the rest. Its own fear, and my great—my only—talent. The same talent that had brought me to this situation in the first place, that talent that had brought me to Deng's house to deceive. So deceive I would. I flung my arms wide.

  "Feel the mighty power of the wrath of the celestial empire beyond the clouds coming through me!" I shouted. "I have intoned the ancient incantations and am purified by the arcane rites. I am the vessel of the pure energy that strikes like an angry dragon to bring fear into the black hearts of the evil ones."

  The ghost had some of the boards ripped away now. Its twisted hands were dripping dark and wet. As it pawed at the wood the ghost flung its head to and fro. I realised that I was enjoying myself. I stamped a foot on the floor.

  "Aiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiii!" I bellowed. "Feel the thousand fiery needles of Pu-shii! Quail before the million lashes of the whip of the Jade Demon of the Hollow Mountain. I command you: away! Away! Away!" There was a crack as a board fell to the floor and then with a rattle of claws and a desperate howl the ghost was through the narrow gap and gone. Sunlight drifted in through the window, illuminated the dust that hung in the air. The room was very still, and quiet.