from the kiln.
There had been two close calls, Gao thought, lying back on the pallet with his arms behind his head. They had travelled at buffalo pace along roads thronged with messengers, soldiers, peasants, traders and farmers. They had attracted little notice, a minor nobleman and his peasant companion on some sort of family business. One guard was suspicious, and Gao immediately went right up to him, talking about the death of a distant uncle and the tedium of travelling to deal with an estate. He burbled about how distraught his poor sister must be until the guard’s eyes glazed over and he let them pass. Gao and Pan had nearly burst, not laughing until they were quite out of earshot.
The serious one had been when a travelling patrol had grabbed Pan Liang. The Emperor wanted workers on the Great Wall and seized any peasant who seemed unattached. It had taken a state visit by an enraged and terrified artist, flourishing an expertly forged Secret Service seal, to retrieve him, standing meek and patient, roped to a train of other meek and patient men. After that, they went on all night, despite the complaints of Little Flower, the buffalo.
That seal had been a work of great skill. Gao had only had a passing glance at the real one, but he had a very good trained eye, and he was fairly sure that it would pass inspection. He sighed, still terrified at the thought that his friend might be so easily removed from him. Two more days should see them at the house.
Pan stirred. Gao snuggled back into his arms. They folded around him, as though they had been measured for each other.
Three days later – Little Flower had chipped a hoof on a stone, and needed to rest – they arrived at a small house, tucked away behind several gardens, right against one of the strange mountains, which went up like a wall but was only three paces wide. The house had a winding path, a roof with red glazed tiles and the correct demons on each corner. The door was opened by a rounded old lady who showed them, as though it was her own, the plain, clean spaces, the fine wooden shutters for the cold weather, the piles of garments and feather mattresses, and supper laid out, the fire already lit, a kettle already boiling. Outside was a bath house, with a sunken tub decorated with butterflies, and a strong inrush of naturally hot water.
Then she bowed to Gao and departed. It was nice to have the little house occupied by such a pleasant young man, and one free with his gold.
‘Here we are,’ said Pan bracingly, putting down his bundles. They had left Little Flower and the cart at a stable in the village. ‘Come along, Master. You need a bath. I really need a bath, I stink. I’ve been wearing these clothes since we left Xian. You painted those butterflies, didn’t you, my Te, my own love?’ Pan had dropped the peasant voice, and that shocked Gao out of his bemusement. The journey was over. They were home; at last.
‘I painted them for you,’ faltered Gao, allowing Pan to lead him to the bath house and strip off his clothes. Pan was already naked. He thought the only thing he could do with those utterly filthy clothes would be to nail them to the mountain in case they came alive during the night. The water gushed over them as they sank down into the bath, embracing, laughing, and sighing with relief. Kissing with relief, with joy, with passion.
The emperor died and was entombed with his multitudinous sacrifices. Gao obtained paper and began to paint again, secretly. He didn’t give the empire very long, but he had to stay hidden until any leftover inquisitors had burned out. Pan took to poetry. He was very good. He loved words. Gao woke many mornings to find Pan gone – walking in the mountains, seeking fresh air and new plants for his garden – and to find a poem pinned to Pan’s side of their bolster.
Thirty years after their arrival in their village, which they always celebrated as a day of special festivity, Pan woke and found Gao not there, but a poem pinned to Gao’s side of the bolster.
I see him seated at the writing desk
Head bowed, brush raised,
Thinking. Then with fluid suddenness he writes:
The characters dance like swallows in the summer sky.
Long ago we said, Forever, and lay down together.
So this is my forever, which floods my heart:
The poet’s brush celebrates my humbleness,
As the painter’s brush celebrates his most splendid presence.
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