Chapter 5
Five
Lord Black
The lift doors slide open to clattering mahjong tiles that chitter like angry swallows against the distant rumbling of a waterfall.
The whole place reeks of yaojing. Not only is there the usual ginger, flint, and the faint fishy whiff of hulijing, but also at least a dozen different fragrances – orchids, lilies, jasmine, sandalwood, cedar, pine to name the most pungent – mixed in with the acrid bite of cigar and cigarette smoke. My poor nose.
Separating the lift lobby from the Mahjong Hall of Harmony is a huge spirit screen framing an embroidered silk Mount Kunlun.
The flickering lanterns make the cerulean waterfalls shimmer, while finely stitched deer, complete with white spots on their coats, frolic beneath majestic pines.
My shoulders twitch – it’s been a long time since I was last at a Mahjong Council.
Ever since that incident with Lady Soo I’ve been excused from showing my face here.
I’m tempted to dawdle, hide behind the spirit screen where no one can see me, but .
. . I shake myself. I will not be made a coward.
Inhaling, I let my chest expand, then exhale even slower. I do it twice more. In. Out. The sooner I find the damned roosters, the sooner I can go home.
I step around the screen into the majesty of the Hall of Harmony.
Hall is a misleading name for the lush meadow spread out before me, created by the combined effort of every ministry of Tian.
The Ministry of Thunder and Storm contributed curling wisps of cloud that hug the walls and a gentle breeze that cools in the summer and warms in the winter to make it seem like we really are in Mount Kunlun, frolicking in the Queen Mother of the West’s immortality peach grove.
The Ministry of Agriculture arranged for grassy hills dotted with trees in perpetual blossom.
I’m told they managed to negotiate with Queen Mother of the West herself to embed parts of the base of Mount Kunlun into the Hall walls for that ‘authentic feel’.
I don’t know the exact terms of the deal, but I’ve since heard the Queen Mother’s prized grove, which always needed 6000 years to fruit, now fruits in half that time.
All that effort for a three-day Ministerial Mahjong Council that takes place once a year.
Servants scurry up and down the stone paths set into the mossy meadows, delivering drinks and snacks to yaojing sat in groups of four at burnished wooden tables placed beneath blossoming trees.
The leafy canopies are dotted with multicoloured lanterns and give each table a sense of privacy.
There’s even a golden glow in the sky, as if dawn were just around the corner.
I know it’s only an illusion, a cleverly painted corner of the ceiling paired with strategically placed electric lights, but it’s still one of my favourite things about this place.
At my feet gurgles a small brook – it rings the whole hall and feeds a waterfall at the other end of the space.
It’s diverted from the mythical Ruoshui River, the protective barrier to Mount Kunlun.
Only immortals may cross the river, preventing unwanted access.
Lord Fu, Lord Lu and Lord Shou, the most superstitious of the lot, collectively insisted on installing the river in the Hall to ward away evil and corruption – even though it’s all rather pointless since there’s also a little bridge to allow servants access and a walkway in the back corner that leads to a series of meeting chambers.
I cross the tiny brook in two strides. I keep my head down, hoping to avoid meeting any hulijing, and slip into the crowd of servants balancing trays laden with fancy cocktails, bottles of Maotai, and little dishes filled with all manner of mahjong snacks, from braised peanuts and chargrilled cuttlefish, to peeled lychees and dried persimmon, and dainty eggshell porcelain cups of peach blossom tears soup made with resin from the Queen Mother’s immortality peach trees.
I wrinkle my nose at the last, a breakfast staple among the hulijing for its bosom- and bottom-plumping properties.
I shudder and keep moving, searching for those rotted roosters.
Two deities lounge on a pile of silk embroidered pillows beneath yet another blossoming tree – mulberry maybe – drinking Maotai from glass cups that look like shells of amber.
They are lesser ministers, in blue and green silks, their hair piled in high ornate loops atop their heads.
The fine gold chains dangling from their hair pins dance on the breeze as they laugh and gossip.
When one of the deities notices me, recognition widens her eyes.
Shock and then something akin to excitement crosses her pointed face.
She leans in and whispers to the other deity, who stiffens, then slowly turns her head my way, eyes sparkling with glee and contempt.
I pretend not to notice, not to feel their gazes boring into my back, not to hear their whispers or the barbed words that litter my shadow as I pass.
Mongrel. Abomination. Cast-off. Arsonist.
My skin prickles at the too familiar insults and I wrap my arms around myself to ward off the old memory of sharp nails digging into tender skin.
I glance back. Their silken water sleeves ripple as they gesture for their friends to join them, then point at me.
Gazes follow their fingers and catch mine for a beat too long, mingled delight and disgust in their gestures, in their laughter.
I tear away, forcing myself to move, even though the laughter brings me back to Soo, how she loved to humiliate me.
Anger rekindles inside me, and my chest goes tight.
Why should I always have to endure their insults?
It isn’t fair. Bullhead was right. Lady Soo is trouble. She’s here in the Hall somewhere; damned if I’ll let her bait me again.
With renewed focus, I move faster, hurrying around the servants towards the outer perimeter of the Hall. I skirt the edges of the space, careful not to slip into the creek, and head towards the waterfall. Murmuring follows in my wake as word of my presence spreads.
It doesn’t take long to find the first rooster.
White with dark grey speckles and tail feathers bright as fresh blood, the thing is standing perilously close to the waterfall, pecking at the grassy bank.
Cool mist freckles my arms, and I swallow the panic, quickly rubbing the wet from my skin and grabbing the rooster before stepping a safe distance from the creek and shoving the clueless creature under an arm.
I wander the Hall, watchful for the tell-tale yellow of Lady Soo and any sign of the other rooster, but neither are anywhere obvious.
My silk slippers are wet from the dewy grass, though not muddy, which I appreciate.
I circle the mahjong tables, keeping my gaze lowered and pretending I don’t hear the intakes of breath, the silence as I pass, or the furious whispering as I leave.
I follow artfully laid stones up another hill.
A rocky outcrop partially obscures a huge weeping willow, but from within the curtain of willow branches comes the click of mahjong tiles.
I sweep aside the branches and duck into a small open space I’d missed before.
Low-hung lanterns cast the domed space in a silvery light.
It’s easy enough to see out, but the way the low light falls, we’re completely hidden inside the canopy.
A flash of yellow catches my eye and I freeze, bracing myself for Soo’s onslaught.
When a moment passes and nothing happens, I dare to look up.
Four deities sit at a mahjong table, engrossed in their game, none of them Soo.
There is something under the table though – the yellow flash I thought was Soo isn’t Soo at all.
It’s the second rooster – the plumes around its neck the same vivid sunshine yellow that Soo so favours.
The thing blinks, puffs out its flaming orange breast, and then lazily turns its ass to me, shaking its teal tail feathers as it pecks a peanut from a man’s open palm.
The owner of the hand glances back at me, black eyes glittering.
A sweep of dark hair falls over one eye.
His slightly hooked nose lends him a rakish air.
The shabby brown changpao is an odd choice for a deity, but an immediate tell that he’s one of the dragon kings.
They are easy enough to tell apart in their true dragon forms because of their colour:
East is azure, the coming of spring,
South is bright red, a warm summer’s kiss.
White is the west, autumn’s cool mist.
Black is true north, a wintry king.
A ditty Horsey taught me as a child – one of the few lessons where I earned a rare smile. But in the dragons’ human guises, I could never get them right. They were all fond of dressing like impoverished poets, floating around in their shabby robes with a dreamy, romantic air about them.
Before I can bow and offer the correct honorifics, he says, ‘This orphaned one basks in your glory, Grand Princess Overflowing with Sagacity.’
I swallow, surprised at his politesse. I bow my head and raise my fist palm salute high. I don’t want anyone to whisper back to Big Wang that I didn’t properly honour a minister of such high rank.
‘This insignificant one wishes you ten thousand years of good health.’ I can’t remember his name and hope he doesn’t notice. ‘Contain my interruption, but I need that rooster.’
‘Lord Black, quit dallying,’ says a deity at the table, her voice like crumbling granite, her face and robes a pale silver-white. On her delicate wrists, bright grass green jade bangles clink as she strokes her row of tiles.