July, Year One

HE LAY IN BLOOD, BRAINS EXPOSED UPON HIS HEAD. A nightmare had been unleashed and he should be dead. But he could still hear the voices of the living through the smoke; laughing, taunting, boasting. And he remembered. He was numb and in pain but he was alive even though it seemed he was in hell.

The bodies of the dead were around and upon him. Their souls called to him. Perhaps it would have been best if he had gone with them, to a place where the emotion couldn’t reach. All he had to do was remain supine and inhale the smoke and he would follow. Except the souls of the departed were urging him to stay. Vengeance, they said. Live, they said.

Now the smoke was thicker; the heat growing. The voices were retreating. He rolled onto his side and gently removed Joe’s arm from across his chest. He moved slowly on hands and knees away from the fire that would reduce the crime to ashes. Except in his mind. In his mind, he knew it would remain white hot.

Vengeance, his friends whispered. Vengeance.

 

July, Year Two

Chapter 1

ALBERT WAS MENDING THE BARN. It was an old wooden structure and he was nailing new boards across a gap he had made by pulling out rotten ones. Not the best repair in the world but, in this world, it would be enough. He was seventy and his eyesight was not as good as it once was, but his hearing was sharp as ever. At least, that’s what he told Billy, and that was why he kept the fully loaded pistol close to hand. He was crouching to nail the boards in place and the position was beginning to hurt his back. He sat down on the dirt floor for a rest.

The day was hot and the barn was hotter. An early heatwave. Weather forecasters might once have claimed this was the start of a barbecue summer. Albert snorted to himself. How many of those had they had? They hadn’t enjoyed a proper summer since 1976 when the reservoirs ran dry and people had complained it was too hot. Never satisfied, some people. The next memorable spell of good weather had been 2002 or 2003 sometime, but he couldn’t remember exactly when. Not that it mattered these days.

Nobody worried anymore about having a barbecue summer. Not since the virus had killed most of humanity and civilisation had collapsed. These days, they judged meteorological conditions only on whether they would be good for growing crops. Strange bloody world, these days, although he couldn’t say so to Auntie Marjorie. She wouldn’t disagree with the sentiment but she would object to the language. As if bloody was bad language. He’d used a lot worse in his time, which gave him pause to think again.

His time? It had been and gone and he cherished his memories. He’d been lucky to have had a happy marriage and lucky that his wife had died three years ago – before the virus. He’d been able to grieve properly and see that the proper funeral rites were followed. Lucky, too, he’d had no children, so that when the plague arrived, he had no close relatives to lose. Whole families had been taken, for Christ’s sake – whole towns. He had heard it said that less than one per cent of the world’s population had survived because of some built-in immunity, but who really knew? He laughed. He had also heard there were still pockets of survivors who were living on tins and waiting for the Americans to come and save them.

Albert now had more family than he’d known in years. Eight of them lived at Nab Farm. Auntie Marjorie was cook and ran the domestic arrangements and he oddjobbed as best he could because a bad back stopped him working in the fields. He had become surrogate grandad to Billy, a lively six-year-old. In fact, most of the others treated him as a grandad figure and called him Pops, even though he claimed 70 was not old, these days. These days. Mind, if he was honest, he did look and feel older than he actually was, a consequence of a lifetime of hard manual work as a builder that had resulted in a damaged back and two buggered knees, and he didn’t care if Auntie Marjorie didn’t like bad language. Why had an old wreck like him been spared when all those young people, like Billy’s parents, had died?

The barn was a pleasant place to be, even though it held the heat, and he could smell the fresh tang of sawdust from when he had cut the boards to size. Soft footsteps outside the open door alerted him. The little bugger won’t get me again, Albert thought, with a smile, and picked up his weapon. He aimed it at the slab of sunshine. His eyes weren’t good but he could tell it was a man who stood in the doorway and not a six-year-old.

‘Who’s that?’ he said.

‘Death,’ said a voice, and a flame and roar came from the man and a bullet ended Albert’s doubts about being spared. It hit him in the chest, throwing him backwards onto the floor, his finger tightening on the trigger of the blue plastic pistol he held that shot a jet of water into the air that fell to mingle with the blood pumping from his wound.

© Jon Grahame

Chapter One

February 1st, 1917 Western Front, France

Angus MacGrath unbuttoned his greatcoat and leaned back against the one tree left on the bank of a river he did not know. Not far downstream, a private, standing waist-deep in the river, squeezed a bar of soap between his hands. It shot upward, and four or five other soldiers lunged for it, splashing and falling over themselves. Their uniforms, boots and rifles lay in a heap by a jagged row of blackened tree stumps. Under a weak early morning sun, bands of mist rose from the cold river, occasionally engulfing the soldiers so that they took on a dream-like quality of white arms and torsos appearing and disappearing.

Above the river on a low stone bridge sat the engine of the troop train where, a day into their journey, it had lurched to a stop, unable or unwilling to carry on. Sunk between endless flat fields, the tracks ran east-northeast toward the Front. Angus flipped open his old pocket compass for confirmation, for comfort, really, and slipped it back in his pocket. He figured they’d be on the march soon, the engine still on the bridge.

While repairs were attempted, the ranks milled about the train, grousing over the delay, but grateful for it all the same. And for the sudden break in the weather. Housed in drafty huts in a camp thick with mud near Le Havre, most of them hadn’t bathed since they’d crossed the Channel and arrived on French soil five days earlier. Those in the river were taking up a challenge. ‘Bap-tism and bless me!’ one shouted, wading in. ‘Sweet Jesus, it’s freezing!’ cried another, plunging in after him. In the train, the owl-faced ranking officer drank steadily from his flask.

Like Angus, the boys in the river and those cheering them on from the bridge were fresh recruits from battalions broken up after training in England to be bled into existing battalions.

Most would join the 61st. But Angus had been singled out and reassigned to replace a dead lieutenant in the 17th Royal Nova Scotia Highlanders – a decision no more random than any he’d encountered since joining up. If there was one thing Angus had learned it was that there was no predicting how things would turn out. Of all the predictions he might have made, himself as an officer in the infan-try was not among them.

In the state of suspension between the world as he’d known it and the absolute unknown, Angus considered the interplay of light and mist, the hazy edges, blank spaces and mute eddies at the river’s edge. Above him, the sky turned a gauzy grey, and a fine rain fell. He tipped his head back and closed his eyes.

Rain. It had been a constant in the collected bits and pieces of the past few months. It had slicked the deck of the ship that carried him to England and slanted in rushes off the tents in the camp where he’d held a rifle for the first time, adjusted to the heft and length and balance of it, and where, surprisingly, he’d found he was a good shot. And where, not surprisingly, he’d found a heady release in charging straw-filled burlap bags, bayonet plunging into their sodden bellies.

Rain and rage. Rain and regret. He’d been sent over with assurances in a letter from Major Gault to a Colonel Chisholm that he’d be a cartographer. In London. Behind the lines. But Gault was unknown to Chisholm, and there being no shortage of cartographers, Angus had been dis-patched to the infantry, where shortages were never-ending. ‘The infantry?’ A chasm of disbelief had opened up.

‘You heard me,’ Chisholm’s adjutant had snapped. ‘You can bloody well draw terrain maps on the field. In the meantime, the infantry can use your other skills – the ones you’ll get soon enough.’

© P.S. Duffy 2014

Chapter 1

CLEETHORPES, ON THE EAST COAST, WAS FIRST SETTLED by Danish Vikings in the eighth century. They arrived with a reputation for violent conquest but they stayed and made their homes. It was the latest occupiers who were there simply for the rape and pillage.

Reaper and Sandra arrived in the early evening, travelling through the Lincolnshire Wolds and heading towards the town along a road that arrowed out of the countryside towards the sea. They had seen no sign of life since Caistor, once a small comfortable Georgian town a few miles back. A door had closed silently in the market place as they drove through. They had felt that their progress was being watched and imagined the relief when they passed. Living so close to the evil on the coast, survivors would be wary of any intrusion into what life they held onto. Reaper reversed the Astra into the drive of a semidetached house on the fringes of suburbia. The sun was low, the sky blushing red. It promised good weather tomorrow.

He was in his middle forties, the girl still in her teens. They wore dark blue tee shirts, combat trousers and Doc Marten boots. Both wore Kevlar stab-and-bullet-proof vests. Reaper had two Glock handguns hanging from his belt, each in Viper drop-leg holsters strapped to his thighs. Sandra had only the one Glock in a similar holster on her right thigh. The guns held 17 rounds each. They both carried Heckler and Koch G36 carbines with twelve-inch barrels, fitted scopes and thirty-round curved magazines. More magazines were in the pockets of their police belts and vests. Both also had ten-inch Bowie knives in sheaths strapped to their lower right leg. Reaper also had three stainless steel throwing knives in a sheath on his left wrist. He had once asked himself how much armament he needed and had come to a swift conclusion: as much as he could bloody well carry.

They each put on a backpack, slung the carbines around their necks on straps and surveyed the empty road from the cover of a privet hedge. Nothing stirred. No cars, no people, no bicycles, no children playing in the late summer sun. Nothing had stirred down this road it seemed since the end of the world, five months before. Lawns and gardens were overgrown, and in the neat houses beyond the hedges would lie the occupants where the virus had taken them: in bed or sprawled on sofas to watch the news highlights of a dying world before they succumbed in their turn. Bodies that by now would be beyond putrefaction and breaking down slowly into bones and dust. The two exchanged a glance and set off down the deserted road towards the centre of the seaside town, carbines held ready.

They kept to side streets and paused often to listen. At last they could see the flat line of the ocean between the houses, the reflection of the dying sun glittering upon its surface. Reaper had two locations fixed in his mind. He suspected the enemy occupied a prominent apartment block on the seafront to the south and, possibly, a nightclub or pub a mile or so to the north. That was where he had last encountered them. The sound of bottles clinking together made them freeze in the shadows of an alley. It had come from a small all-purpose store on the opposite corner of the road.

They exchanged hand signals. Sandra crouched and levelled the carbine at the store. Reaper crossed the street silently and paused, his back against the wall alongside the shop door, which he could see was not properly closed. Someone was moving around inside, trying to be quiet and failing. He risked a swift glance. One man. He was putting items into a cloth shopping bag. He risked a second glance but could see no one else. The man seemed unarmed.

Reaper looked back across the street and raised one finger and then held his palm out indicating that Sandra should stay in position. He slipped the strap of the carbine over his head and laid the weapon on the ground. As he rose back to a standing position, he took the Bowie knife from its sheath. The steel reflected the last rays of the dipping sun. A gun might cause someone to dive for cover. A long, wide blade was far more personal and terrifying and silent. They didn’t want an alarm raised.

He moved into the shop quickly, the knife held forward at waist height. The man stopped, turned and his eyes widened in shock and horror. He dropped the cloth bag and the contents clanged on the floor. He raised his hands and said, ‘I’m sorry. I’m sorry.’

This was no wolf. This was a sheep, doing the best he could to survive by grazing the remaining stock from out-of-the-way food stores.

Reaper put a finger to his lips to tell the man to be silent. He glanced around but there was nobody else. The store had a counter to the right and three cramped aisles. The section that had housed the booze was empty. Any frozen food still in the refrigerators would have been ruined since the electricity died, but there were still tins and packets on the shelves, and cans and bottles of soft drinks.

‘I’m not going to hurt you,’ Reaper said. ‘I want information.’

The man was confused. He still expected to be hurt.

‘What’s your name?’ Reaper said. ‘Your name?’

The man was perhaps forty, slim build, average height, average features. He wore jeans and trainers and a green tee shirt depicting the profile of a man with a Mohican hair cut and the words Diesel: Home of the Brave. The wearer wasn’t very brave. He moistened his lips to lick away the fear and said, ‘Bradley. Paul Bradley.’

© Jon Grahame 2014

The matron’s room is conveniently situated next to the sick bay.

Mr Paine, the assistant housemaster who showed me around the school this afternoon, had opened the door, and a nauseating combination of sweet perfume, smoke and death emanated, catching at my chest. Mr Paine told me with a shake of his angular head that my predecessor had died suddenly, soon after watching a closely contested rugby match on the main field. He informed me with an air almost of reverence that she had followed the game keenly.

It would not be wise, I’d thought, to confess that I find rugby puzzling.

Entering my new bedroom, I was relieved to see my suitcase, which had earlier been whisked away from my taxi by the garden boy, lying across the chair. I’d had no reason to believe it was not in safe hands; my relief was entirely due to encountering a pocket of familiarity in a terrifyingly strange landscape. The brown and battered holdall, which had belonged to my father whose work took him all over Africa, was waiting patiently for me. Mr Paine stood fidgeting at the door, closely examining the architrave as I took in my new abode. That suits me. I don’t want his prying eyes inside.

I will have to wash the yellow paisley curtains and the bed covers and get someone to help me carry the carpet downstairs for a good beating. It can’t be too difficult to expurgate death, surely. Yet it took two deaths to bring me here – two! How long, Lord, till You send death for me?

It has not escaped my attention that Mummy’s passing away and my changed circumstances have arrived soon after the time of the year that we honour Your crucifixion, Lord. How much more difficult were Your trials on this earth! Mine are nothing in comparison, so I will stop complaining.

On reflection, it seems a bit harsh to remove immediately all signs of the previous matron, poor thing.

Mr Paine could not contain himself any longer and announced that he was required elsewhere, saying I should present myself at six-twenty sharp at the north entrance of the dining hall where he would introduce me to the other housemasters, Mr Talbot and Mr Leighton, before dinner. I was relieved to see him stalk off on his thin legs; at the same time, I became aware of a further constriction in my chest at being abandoned to my fate. Mercifully, I have my asthma pump for such circumstances, and this journal for comfort, and, of course, You, God.

The room is tiny and painted with the same nauseating enamel green as the sick bay. I note that there is no bookcase, which will have to be remedied shortly, as my books will arrive on Wednesday. There is a bedside table and cupboard containing a few wire hangers that jangled forlornly as I hung up my coat, and a small table at which I am now seated with a rather grimy kettle on top. I have no need of further kitchen paraphernalia, Mr Paine told me as we walked past the dining hall earlier; I am expected to take my meals with the boys as part of my duties.

Once he had gone, I tried out the mattress, which sighed into the shape of the previous owner, exhaling more smoke to catch at my throat. I fear it will also bring nightmares and backache.

There is a consolation, though. From here, where I am sitting, I can see a goodly slice of my beloved mountain framed by the sash window. It is saturated today with the blue and lilac hues of early winter, with clouds curdled round the peak. This view will be an endless source of inspiration if I can find space in this small room for my paints. The lack of space is aggravated by there being two doors to this room, one that leads into the sick bay, and one into the corridor. I do not like this arrangement; it makes me feel as though I could be attacked simultaneously from two sides. I will ask permission to keep one of them locked.

Below the window, I can hear the incessant tumult of young male voices. This is my new and only home.

Recently, my eyes simply won’t stop leaking.

*

It is with much trepidation that I begin this new life, and with it, this journal. I have not attempted such a record for decades, not since I was a girl. Yet I find myself alone at this table with a pen in my hand and an exercise book in front of me, hoping that these scribblings can help me. This, and also my watercolours, albeit in different ways.

I am the kind of person life happens to. It might appear that I chose to come here, but it wasn’t so. Mummy died, leaving me unexpectedly with no roof over my head because of an unfortunate debt of which I had no prior knowledge. Phoebe came down for the funeral, and happened upon an advert for this position that had miraculously become available. I am fated. God plants my every step.

The irony is that Mummy could not abide the rich, and warned against their pernicious company, yet because of her death I have arrived, hat in hand, at their doorstep. I will, however, take due precautions. Mummy was right in that money is a potential corrupter, particularly in combination with idleness. She need not fear, however, as in this position on my current salary, I will not be susceptible to the vices of the wealthy!

I have a carbon copy of my letter of application, stuck into the back of this journal. Phoebe looked it over before I sent it. She says I have a good handwriting, but I think the loops come out too childishly.

 Dear Mr Talbot,

I would like to apply for your advertised position of Matron. I do not have experience directly in the field, but I was a student nurse for a few months after my schooling. Unfortunately, I had to leave before obtaining my diploma as my mother was ill. Thereafter I worked in Mr Lawson’s pharmacy situated in the Main Road for many years; thus I have a knowledge of routine medicines. An aspect of my employment was to attend to people who needed their dressings changed or their blood pressure taken. I have a good manner with people. Mr Lawson’s kind reference is enclosed.

My hobbies are reading and walking. I am in good health, although occasionally troubled by minor episodes of asthma. I am a practising Anglican; Father Evans’s reference is also appended.

I hope very much that you will grant me an interview.

It would be an honour to be associated with your prestigious school.

Yours faithfully,

Phyllis Wilds

© Dawn Garisch 2009

one

天.

Hard ground loomed below the high boundary wall. Yun Shu dangled in mid-air, her legs tensed for a fall. Giggling made her wobble. It was like being a fly in a spider’s web, except the threads holding her were friendly: Teng gripping one wrist, Hsiung the other.

‘Faster!’ she cried, swinging back and forth. Trees and ponds and walls in the ancient garden blurred.

‘Jump!’ urged Teng, his almond eyes wide and earnest.

‘Can’t hear you!’

‘You’re too heavy,’ said Teng, ‘you’ll hurt yourself!’

‘I like it!’

‘We’ll drop you,’ grunted Hsiung, though he was strong enough to swing her by himself. Then he let go. See-sawing wildly, Yun Shu clutched Teng’s hand until he, too, released his hold. She landed with an outraged shriek. The boys hooted as she rose, brushing twigs from her skirt. Two tousled heads vanished over the wall and their laughter faded into the trees.

Yun Shu took a moment to adjust to the silent garden. Earlier she had stalked crickets in dusty lanes, free to exclaim or sing or caper whenever she chose. At home different rules applied, like stepping from sunlight into a cold, bare room.

She glanced around for spies, aware she had been careless to make such noise. Golden Lotus hated noise, and while it might be tolerated from Yun Shu’s older brothers, a girl should never draw attention to herself.

Wandering up the path, shoulders hunched, she did not notice the very object of her fears swaying towards her on exquisite, tiny feet – every step displaying the elegance and power of a lotus gait.

‘Yun Shu!’

The willowy creature’s make-up was a flawless white mask. Silver and jade hairpieces drew the eye to shiny coils of silken black hair and a figure as neat and pleasing as any fine lady’s. The girl became conscious of her plump legs and unshapely body, her ridiculously long eyelashes and puppy eyes; most of all, her black hair that never combed obediently or stayed in its bun.

‘Why are you scowling?’ demanded Golden Lotus, in a high, singsong voice. ‘How many times must I tell you? Smile and glide! Smile and glide as I do.’

Yun Shu bowed very low – she knew what happened otherwise.

‘Youngest Daughter,’ continued Golden Lotus, ‘Honoured Father wishes to converse with you.’

A flicker of fear. Golden Lotus didn’t use cultured words like converse, it must have come from Father himself. But the Provincial High Minister of Salt seldom noticed his daughter, let alone spoke to her.

She followed the swaying young man into the ancient mansion they occupied on Monkey Hat Hill. The area had a reputation as a haunt of scholars and other potential rebels. They passed tiny courtyards with neat gardens and closed doors; venerable corridors gleaming with wax and polish. Golden Lotus’s four inch slippers squeaked slightly as he shuffled along.

He led the girl to Father’s bureau, propelling her into the long room. At once Yun Shu started bowing. She knelt on the floor before Father’s writing table. Salt Minister Gui, a pale, gloomy man with a wispy beard, somehow managed to both notice and ignore his daughter. An abacus clicked in his meaty hands, beads flying from side to side.

‘Five thousand and sixty-three taels,’ he muttered to himself.

‘Twenty one thousand b-blocks at s-seventy-two cash.’

Golden Lotus remained by the door, cooling himself with a fan.

It was the first time Yun Shu had been invited into the bureau, though far from her first visit. She sometimes stole there when Father was away on official business – which was often – to read old books and scrolls.

‘Ah,’ he said, at last. ‘Good!’

His eye crept down to a letter he had been reading when she entered. Yun Shu pressed her forehead to the varnished floor.

‘Yes,’ he said, clearing his throat. He peered at her as one might at a dubious underling. ‘She’s g-grown, hasn’t she?’

Golden Lotus’s white mask offered no encouragement. It had frozen around a demure smile.

‘Quite right. Straight to b-business,’ said the Salt Minister, awkwardly. ‘Youngest Daughter, you’re getting older. High time to b-be useful! You may have noticed ladies calling here over the past few months?’

Yun Shu nodded seriously, proud of her grown-up knowledge. ‘They were matchmakers,’ she replied. ‘I think they came for Eldest Brother.’ She hesitated then added recklessly, ‘When I saw him last month there was fluff on his chin!’

The Salt Minister blinked in surprise to hear her speak fluently.

‘Of course, you’re quite wrong,’ he said. ‘It was you they wished to discuss.’

Again the abacus clicked. Yun Shu’s long eyelashes fluttered rapidly. ‘But Honoured Father,’ she said, ‘my ceremony of hairpins will not take place for years.’

Five or six to be exact. So long she could hardly conceive becoming a woman.

‘Never mind,’ said Gui, ‘the contract’s signed and sealed. Now we must deliver!’

He looked to Golden Lotus for appreciation. The young man laughed, his painted red mouth open but making no sound.

While Yun Shu knelt dutifully, Father explained the contract in a dull, precise voice. A family of very respectable merchants in Chenglingji with extensive dealings in the salt trade were keen to secure his co-operation. They had even agreed to waive the dowry, a prospect of real advantage to the family.

‘You see,’ he concluded, ‘everyone profits. Especially your b-brothers.’

Yun Shu screwed up her eyes to hide tears. ‘Honoured Father, you have not mentioned who is to be my husband!’

He waved aside this question with clumsy fingers. ‘A son . . .’ He checked the letter. ‘Ahem, not specified. It is the connection that matters. Do you understand?’

She nodded. Yet it was too sudden a change. To be ignored all her life then learn – years before she might reasonably expect it – Honoured Father had already arranged to get rid of her!

‘There’s something else,’ he said. ‘G-golden Lotus has agreed to ensure your feet are, as specified in the contract, no longer than four inches.’

Yun Shu glanced down. Her feet were already over six inches long!

‘Do you mean to bind my feet, Father?’

‘How else will they shrink?’ He seemed genuinely puzzled.

‘Grandmother’s feet were not bound!’ protested Yun Shu.

‘Mother’s were not bound!’

‘It would have been better if they had been,’ muttered Golden Lotus, fluttering his fan.

‘Father, I’m too old! I don’t want tiny feet! I don’t want . . .’

Pain silenced her as Golden Lotus tugged her hair. ‘It shows how much your Father loves you!’ he whispered.

‘Please, Father!’

The Minister of Salt’s eyes narrowed. He clicked away at his abacus. Golden Lotus tapped Yun Shu on the shoulder with his fan to indicate she should leave.

天.

A hot wind made the bamboo groves on Monkey Hat Hill whisper and slur. That night a wave of monsoon rolled in from the east, black clouds billowing inland, connecting Six-hundred-li Lake to the dark sky with rods of rain. A million tapping nails on roof tiles, scratching, trickling, trying to find gaps.

Yun Shu slept badly, her dreams invaded by Golden Lotus bending her feet until bones snapped like twigs.

At dawn, she twitched and curled into a ball. Some animal instinct deep within noted the night rain had slowed. Rosy light glowed through the soft skin of her closed eyelids, stirring fear and urgency.

Yun Shu sat up in bed and cried out. Any day, perhaps today, Golden Lotus would begin the binding. After that? A lifetime of wretched hobbling. Compelled by a sudden hope, Yun Shu dressed swiftly and crept out into gathering light, birdsong, scented flowers and wet, impressionable soil. Soon she reached a secret hole in the boundary wall of the splendid house and gardens occupied by Salt Minister Gui. Her hope lay somewhere far less respectable: Deng Mansions.

Deng Mansions adjoined Yun Shu’s home. It consisted of a large compound of courtyards and shabby wooden buildings surrounded by gardens wild as grass seed. Built on the same grand scale as the Salt Minister’s house, it was topped by similar ornate, upward-curving red tiles. However, its wooden walls and doors sagged and several ceilings had fallen in on themselves.

Positioned two-thirds up Monkey Hat Hill, Deng Mansions was one of a dozen houses formerly occupied by absurdly rich officials and merchants. That was before the Mongols put the entire city to the sword. Now, all the other great houses on the Hill were burned or abandoned. Only the Deng clan clung to their ancestral home. Monkey Hat Hill had gained a reputation for being cursed and few risked the taint of misfortune. As for Salt Minister Gui, he only lived there because no one was alive to charge him rent.

She found Hsiung and Teng in the weed-choked central courtyard. They stood side by side, emptying their bladders into a thorn bush, competing to see who could spray highest.

‘I win again!’ crowed Hsiung. He was tall and muscular for his age, whereas Teng’s thin limbs suggested delicacy. Both had shaved heads topped with small tufts of black hair.

‘I could eat a banquet,’ said Teng, yawning. ‘I bet we get millet for breakfast.’

Then they noticed her. Neither was embarrassed as they pulled up their breeches. They hardly considered her a girl at all.

‘Why are you here so early?’ asked Hsiung. Despite being a servant, he often spoke up before Teng, his master’s son.

Breathlessly, Yun Shu told her tale of betrothal and bound feet. They sat on a decaying wooden step like a huddle of geese.

‘My mother didn’t have bound feet,’ she concluded. ‘She was a doctor’s daughter from Nancheng. Mother told me my Grandfather called bound feet unnatural. If only she was still alive!’

‘How old were you when she died?’ asked Teng.

‘Five.’

‘My mother died seven years ago,’ he said, tonelessly.

‘Sometimes I see her ghost. Especially at night. But when I look again it’s just shadows. She’s never there.’

The children fell silent. Hsiung began to whack the earth with a stick.

‘I wouldn’t let any one crush my feet,’ he declared. ‘I want to be free to run wherever I like.’

Teng stirred. ‘We must all obey our Honoured Fathers.

Confucius wrote . . .’

‘What if her father’s got it wrong?’ broke in Hsiung.

‘We should obey our parents especially if they are wrong,’ countered Teng. ‘Otherwise you’re wicked.’

‘I don’t want to hobble like a cripple all my life!’ cried Yun Shu.

The boys fell silent.

‘Will you help me?’ she asked. ‘You’re my only friends.’

Teng grew suddenly enthusiastic, as he often did when inspired by noble notions. ‘I know, let’s be Yun Shu’s xia! Her heroes! Hsiung, it’s just like that book I told you about. The hero saves the lady and she stabs herself because he won’t marry her!’

Hsiung liked the sound of that. They were interrupted by a voice inside the house: Teng’s father, Deng Nan-shi, wishing good morning to Lady Lu Si. Perpetually forlorn and annoying, Lady Lu Si was the Deng clan’s only other retainer, aside from Hsiung. Her position in the household was ambiguous, half honoured guest, half servant.

‘Golden Lotus and Father will be at Prince Arslan’s palace all day,’ said Yun Shu.

‘Meet us at the usual place in an hour,’ offered Teng.

‘Hsiung, we must remember to take our bamboo swords.’

Yun Shu escaped from the overgrown courtyard moments before Deng Nan-shi emerged into the sunlight with Lady Lu Si to receive his tiny household’s morning bows.

© Tim Murgatroyd 2013