Taming Poison Dragons by Tim Murgatroyd

gained me few friends, partly because of my strange accent, and also, I suspect, because P’ei Ti influenced the other boys. Who was I, after all? My father might well be a brave soldier (the tale of his heroism had even reached the capital), but in those days, as now, it was the fashion to despise soldiers until they torched your house.
    Memories of our school-room. . . paper-winged flies. . .the drone of a voice reciting passages from the  Book of   Changes  or the  Book of Rites . . . moments of fear when students were beaten for falling asleep. . . copying characters outmoded a thousand years ago, every brush stroke charged with the exhilaration of magical power. . . squatting by myself in the courtyard for a midday meal of rice and salt-fish, while Cousin Zhi was served by his lackeys, poorer boys hanging round, hopeful for leftovers. . .angles of sunlight catching flocks of dust motes. . . the mid-afternoon gong releasing me into the city, a thousand fascinations, as I walked home.
    All these things existed. And are no more.
    Of course, there were those who wished to send me back to the mountains. My success had provoked Cousin Zhi’s ill-will. His own marks were unexceptional. Indeed, he fluttered between pass and fail as a moth flaps round a lamp, scorching itself but never quite destroyed. Had I not been part of his household, he could have ignored me. As it was, my presence continually reminded him of disappointing his mother, an unbearable thought. Yet he dare not act against me openly because of Uncle Ming’s protection. Thus he resorted to guile.
    One midday break, before an examination for which he had prepared zealously, three of the lesser merchants’ sons approached me as I sat eating. I had noticed Cousin Zhi whispering to them earlier, passing round a large basket of honeyed buns.
    ‘Hey, Mountain Goat! Who are you to come here and insult our families!’ the leader shouted. ‘Go back where you belong! You’re not welcome here.’
    I continued to dip my chopsticks.
    ‘I hear your father is too poor to own a pig!’ squealed another, smaller boy.
    The weak are always behind every fight. His companions roared with laughter at his wit and he seemed to grow an inch. Still I ignored them.
    ‘Hey, I’m talking to you, Mountain Goat!’ shouted the first. ‘Explain yourself!’
    I finished my meal and closed the wooden lid of my rice box. In truth, I was shaking inside. The punishment for fighting was five strokes of the bamboo. Far worse, I would forfeit my right to sit the afternoon’s examination, thereby losing months of study. I didn’t care to think what Uncle Ming would say. Cousin Zhi had set a cruel trap. It was obvious his friends wished to provoke me into throwing the first blow.
    ‘I hear your father is a Mongol coward,’ shouted the leader desperately, looking over at Cousin Zhi for approval.
    The significance of his look did not escape me. Yet I was snared. This I could not ignore. I rose, my fists bunched.
    ‘Pah!’ I said. ‘Cheap singing girl! For a steamed bun you sing anything!’
    *

    I prepared to follow up my words with a punch.
    Suddenly there was laughter all around us. P’ei Ti and his cronies had formed a circle.
    ‘What do you say to that, Steamed-Bun-Singing-Girl?’ he jeered.
    The boy glowered at me, then turned sheepishly away.
    Quite unexpectedly, I had won. In a moment P’ei Ti stood beside me.
    ‘Why didn’t you hit him?’ he asked, excitedly. ‘He insulted your father.’
    ‘Ah, but I did.’
    And it was true. Ever after my persecutor was known as Steamed-Bun-Singing-Girl. That afternoon I gained a slightly lower mark than Cousin Zhi, so perhaps his plan worked after all.
    When the gong signalled the end of our last lesson, I was free until supper-time. The City of Heaven lay at my disposal. Where did I go? A place Cousin Zhi or Honoured Aunty would never find me.
    In any life, energy and contradiction form patterns you never choose. So it was with