Part One
On to our third card, then, and this is the Chariot. Our Charioteer is a princely figure, his bare chest bronzed and muscular, his raven hair cut long but held back by a golden circlet about his brow. His Chariot is a golden gondola, with a royal blue, star-spangled canopy, drawn by a pair of winged sphinxes, one coal black, the other snow white. Behind we can see the spires of a city on a high mountain, waterfalls spilling down the tiered galleries and buttresses.
Carelessly, the Charioteer holds his reins in one hand and in the other clutches a re-curved bow, the fletchings of a quiver of arrows visible over his left shoulder. About his neck there hangs a square medallion inscribed with a circle with a point at its centre: the zodiacal symbol of the Sun.
He is Apollo, the Greek ideal of beardless youth, oracle and healer, patron of music and poetry. Lover of Trojan Cassandra, and of Acanthus and of Hyacinth and of Cyprus. Mercury made the first Lyre for him. The Furies opposed him.
The Chariot represents war and struggle, in Plato's metaphor our inner struggle, the war with ourselves: the Prince is the Intellect, and must rein in the twin steeds of our passions, light and dark, the opposing pull of our Morals and the tug of our Desires. "Logos", reason, must control "pathos", emotion and "ethos", morality, or be drawn hither and yon.
Literally and metaphorically, the Charioteer journeys from the Earth up into the Heavens. In the tarot deck, the Chariot is numbered seven, coming after the Lovers and before Fortitude and the Hermit, representing the journey out of Eden to the learning of inner strength and wisdom.
But Apollo is also prophetic and the gift of prophecy is two-edged, for prophecy denies choice and like the solar journey of Hyperion the path is fixed.
About the card appear four figures: at the top, on the left a crowned lion clutches a pearl, a symbol of Imperial Britannia in the west and perhaps the pearl of the orient? To the right, an oriental dragon, with golden mane and four legs, it grasps a pair of dice in its front claw, to represent fortune, maybe, and the rise of the east. At the foot, on the left, an English race-built galleon, under the flag of Roanoke, first of all lost colonies; and on the right a Chinese junk, borne down some brick tunnel upon the back of what looks, great heaven, like an enormous alligator.
The card is edged in azure.
Downfall
This is a story about pilgrimage, the straight and narrow path, getting up out of the sewer to reach for the heavens.
All great cities have their shadow, their lost places, their hidden underbelly: London Below; the lost subways and sewers under New York; the city of ice beneath Moscow State University filled with statues of Lenin and Stalin, where giant freezers labour amid the dispossessed Soviet giants to stop the university sliding into the Moskva River; the forgotten sound stages and screening rooms of Production Hell in Los Angeles, themselves a half-remembered echo of the twilight Théâtre des Ombres behind Paris's Rue Morgue, which address, to this day, people believe Poe, notorious as a drunk and a hoaxer, invented as a fiction. While in China, Chung Kuo the Middle Kingdom, they do things differently, and their Northern Capital, Beijing, is all shadow to the Forbidden City, though of course since 1952 the true Forbidden City has itself been hidden.
These shadow cities could be echoes of our earliest legends – of Uruk, city of Gilgamesh who rejected the goddess Ishtar, and the house of dust and darkness wherein she and her court went down to dwell, to eat clay and to dress in bird feathers – or premonitions of our darkest futures – of the world-spanning terror tunnels of Mighty Termight, Undercity of the Terran Empire, consumed by the eternal pogrom of our worst prejudices against the unloved, the unwanted and the outsider.
Most spectacular of all, some would say, are the vertical markets and dark skyscrapers hidden in the dragon lines of Hong Kong. From the Tower of the Scorpion to the hidden wharfs under Kowloon Harbour where the fishmen linger, through Tong territories and the secret stupas of ancient Buddhist sects, run the long paths of the Dark City: sometimes by ladders and bridges clinging to the outsides of towers, hidden amidst the Chinese lanterns and the neon; sometimes up an alley across a rooftop garden concealed in a maze of guttering and air-conditioning and under the solar panels; sometimes across a whole floor of a building where the lifts don't stop and the stairwell is bricked up.
That is where you will find Empire Street: a little bit of the British Empire that never surrendered, never returned to China. There, Her Majesty's Governor Brigadier General Sir Arthur Grimshaw and his fifty British Constables endeavour to keep up the standards: he wears a pith helmet with feathers; he takes tea at four o'clock every day; and he neither knows nor care that his rank of Brigadier General was abolished by the British Army in 1922. Gentlemen are expected to be properly attired, hats and morning suits, top buttons fastened; ladies are not permitted to show their ankles or to vote, and must retire to the withdrawing room when the menfolk want to smoke, drink port and talk business; children should be seen and not heard. They even play a crazed form of vertical cricket, scoring runs by carrying the ball between the wicket gates, one in the heights, one in the depths, that mark the limits of the Empire's territory while avoiding the bats of the other players. It is, in short, a little piece of madness in an insane world.
Empire Street is where Steven Chen grew up to become Steven Chance. Taught by Father Raguel at the Church of England Missionary School, where all the maps still feature a quarter of the world in pink and every day features a reading from the Bible. He learned English, Cantonese, a little maths and the weird form of history taught in Empire Street, but his real lessons were from leaping, climbing and scrambling among the cables and zip-wires that wove Empire Street together. A natural aerialist, by twelve he had graduated to flying between buildings on kites and gliders; by fifteen he'd moved on to helicopters and light aircraft, working for the "men of property" – truthfully, little more than a bunch of warring gang leaders styling themselves as Victorian entrepreneurs.
He was a handsome boy and grew into a handsome young man, avoiding the drugs – mostly – and avoiding getting in to too many fights; his weaknesses were girls and gambling. Gambling is a mania in Hong Kong, it always has been, and Steven always was as bad as any, taking a bet on anything, the horse racing, the fighting, the cricket; he said to his missionary tutor at school one day: "if God does not play dice, take me to the Devil."
And that was how he found himself at the age of twenty-one in a club called "Downfall" at the bottom of the city, owing fifty thousand Hong Kong dollars to a man with one eye whose name he didn't entirely remember. A woman called Christina had shown him a very interesting time the night before and left with all of his savings before he woke up; another woman called Evangeline had promised to show him an even more interesting time with a deck of cards and he'd gambled for the money he'd lost with money he didn't have.
There was usually one of two outcomes to a situation like this: perpetual service to one of the Tongs, if you were lucky; or a slow and painful murder if you were not. And luck was not favouring Steven today.
Steven Chance, however, was to be saved.
Salvation arrived in the form of a Chinese woman in a red traditional-style padded jacket and grey trousers. She appeared at the table and took the croupier's place, bidding away the fatal Evangeline.
"Mr Chance," she said, "it looks like you might have a problem."
"No, no, everything is fine, I've got this covered. What you need to understand is…"
"Please," she interrupted, "while your explanation would no doubt be both colourful and plausible, I rather think your situation explains itself, don't you?"
"No, look, it's like…" he stopped and gave her a wry smile. "It depends, doesn't it?"
"Depends, Mr Chance?"
"On how much it's going to hurt, man."
"Ah. Quite so. Perhaps, then, you will allow me to make you an offer?"
"Sure. Go right ahead; I don't think Mr er…" he waved vaguely at the one-eyed man "…he's not going to mind. Well not for a minute, anyway."
"Very good. Then here is my proposal: I have an item which I urgently need to be delivered to an associate at the Vault of Heaven, at the upper reach of Empire Street. If you will deliver it for me, I shall agree to cover your immediate… difficulty."
"Why can't you take it yourself?"
"For reasons I will not explain, I am not at liberty to leave the wharfs at this time; nor is my associate in a position to descend from the heights."
"It's dangerous, isn't it?"
"I will not deny it."
"Fatally?"
"Perhaps. But less so than your current situation."
"Is it a bomb?"
"Not in any sense that you mean."
"Okay, I'll do it."
"Good." She turned to the one-eyed man. Holding up her right hand in a gesture of peace, she reached delicately inside her jacket with her left and drew out a wad of notes and slapped it down on the card table. In quite blunt Cantonese she said to him: "Take it and go very quickly."
His cyclopean glower narrowed at her for a moment before he made a gesture, half a shrug half a nod, and picked up the money. He thumbed it a cursory count and then slid away from the table.
"Now," she said, her attention back on Steven like a laser, "he will soon work out whom to tell to enhance his profit, so you have not much time."
"Er, yeah. Good point. So, why'd you just let him go?"
"Incentive. For you."
"Nice."
"Take this." From her sleeve she produced a ring. It was a reddish-coloured metal, not gold, more like bronze or copper perhaps. It was quite broad for a finger-ring and scored with a long spiralling groove.
He reached out his hand, but she grabbed it and with a sharp movement forced the ring onto his fourth finger. She wasn't gentle and he yelped.
"Jeez! And do I get three wishes?"
"Perhaps."
"Seriously?"
"Go to the Vault of Heaven. Ask for Wu Wei."
"Yeah, sure. Three wishes? No, wait, how will I know who he is?"
"That is of no importance. You should go now." She indicated the door where the one-eyed man was re-entering followed by two shady-looking men of the low town. "Your friend has acted quicker than we supposed. Here, I shall show you the way out through the kitchen."
The kitchen door let out onto a yard made of timber and paper walls with narrow alleys leading off in all directions, and that was where salvation left him.
Jusang Harbour
And that would have been that, had he not met Jo. Ah, a delightful creature. Cunning as a fox, but quite, quite charming. I once had the pleasure myself when I had the misfortune to be exiled to the Nineteen Eighties. But that's another story.
Obviously there was no chance that Steven was going to take this fool's errand up Empire Street, so his first decision had to be what he was going to do instead.
Jǔsàng Harbour lies deep and dark under the fat belly of the city. Buildings cluster in knots on the wooden wharves and piers made fast around the immense concrete pilings driven down deep into the bedrock. The sound of black sucking waters lapping in the slips between jetties is everywhere. Most of the light is neon, harsh and actinic, though colourful Chinese lanterns hang in streamers across many of the paths and docks.
Steven was close to the bottom here but, at least for the moment, thankfully the smell of cooking coming from the club's kitchen masked the stench of the dregs in the harbour.
He took stock of his situation. He owned what he stood up in: a white linen shirt, sleeves buttoned above his elbows; red and pink check shorts; ankle-length sneakers; his black socks, and the matching underwear, were silk, fake designer from a little shop just off Empire Street. The ring, that might be valuable. Otherwise, he had not a bean.
He could return to his rented room. Hope that his winning smile, well maybe a bit more of him than his smile, would keep landlady Fan happy for a day or so until he could sort something out. One of the men of property would want a job doing sooner or later. It might be sooner.
He picked an alley and cautiously began to make his way from Downfall to wherever he might stand a chance to get an easy job or a free drink.
"Oh! Help!"
A cry cut off with a splash, and then a spluttering and thrashing coming from across the courtyard and towards the Up Gate.
Steven hesitated. It was a woman's cry.
"Help! Help me! Anyone! Oh, oh dear!"
With a curse on all clumsy cow-heeled heifers, he ran nimbly back up the alley, across the yard and towards the sounds of struggle in the water.
"Hey!" he called. "Hey there! Help's coming! Where the hell are you anyway!"
"Here! Here! Oh, oh crumbs! Down here!"
He kicked off his sneakers, took a deep breath and dived into the stygian waters. The stink hit him before the water. Even prepared, the shock of it knocked half the air out of him. He gasped and crashed belly-flop into the water. There went the rest of his air.
For a moment he thought all he'd achieved was a second drowning in this open sewer, his own as well as hers. He was a strong young man and a competent swimmer, but he preferred to be in the sky. The water, rank and foul, was going to bear him down. He felt the ring on his finger throbbing painfully in time to the pounding of blood in his head.
And then the water surged under him, as though something large, unfathomable, was pressing him upwards. For a moment he imagined that his hand brushed something, something hard like stone, but warmer and almost pliable. Was there something, some thing, down there? Some armoured leviathan? Thank god he didn't scream.
He dragged himself to the surface and swallowed a foetid lungful of air and was grateful like it was fresh clean oxygen. Shaking the harbour's rheum from his eyes he cast about him and spotted something straw-like and straggly just metres away. It was a woman's head, her blonde locks plastered over her face like some strange yellow seaweed.
With powerful strokes he closed the gap between them, coming around behind her to catch her in a lifesaver's grip about her neck.
"Gawk!" she cried, taken by surprise, but he ignored her and dragged her with him to the nearest iron ladder hanging down from the quayside. He managed to half push, half drape her onto the lowest rung and left her hanging there, while he trod water, gasping at the rank atmosphere, very much trying not to, very much trying not to worry about what might still be down there in the water with them.
After a minute, she seemed to gather herself.
"Sorry," she said, "sorry. I'll get out of your way, here."
It seemed for a moment like she was actually going to jump off the ladder to let him pass, as though this were some social occasion and she was blocking his path to the buffet. But she wasn't that far gone, and eventually started to drag herself up the ladder out of the water and back to safety. Tired, grateful and still cursing, he followed.
Reaching the wooden gangway, he found her kneeling up on the planking, trying to wring out her hair but plainly just knotting it more into her heavily ringed fingers. She was dressed in a sort of maroon leather catsuit, and the immersion had done it no good at all.
That made him regard his own clothes, and they had fared no better, sodden and stained by their dunking. He looked up and down the quay to left and right to no avail. Someone had stolen his sneakers. With a weary sigh he stripped off his sodden silk socks, squeezed what water out of them he could and stuffed them into an equally waterlogged pocket.
"Thank you very much!" the woman was saying. "And, oh, I am sorry about your socks."
"Socks. Yeah. Don't mention it. What were you doing in the harbour?"
"Oh it wasn't on purpose! There were these two big men and they pushed me. And, oh, they've taken my bag!"
"They would have."
"Look, I really am sorry. And not just about the socks. Is there anything I can do?"
He looked her over. She was petite, Western – obviously – with her blonde hair and turned up nose. Not his usual type but he wouldn't necessarily say no.
"Whoa no!" she said, "I didn't mean like that! If you can get me back to my friends, I can pay you… for the clothes, at least."
"What the hell! The day can't get any worse, can it? Where are we going, then?"
"Well, if you could take me to, that is, I think we're supposed to be meeting at the House of Beauty which is…"
"…which is at the top of the Hěn nán beyond the Up Gate," he finished for her. "Empire Street. Figures."
"Shall we get going then? I'm Jo, by the way."
And she stuck out her hand like a duchess at a garden party, but her grin was like a naughty schoolgirl. The sort he couldn't resist.
"Come on then," he said, shaking the offered hand.
Richard Flowers
Continue reading...
