Dragon Bones

  No one would believe in a thousand years how I got home today. Lily would love it, because it would be a great embellishment to her stories. Maybe I’ll tell her when I come back next year. I could make some real money.

  David closed his eyes for a moment as a deep unease settled into him. A blunder had given him the diary. In a way he was glad he had it, because he was sure he had more pieces of the puzzle than Hulan did, but he was worried about her. He’d gotten this far since he’d left her at the Three Gorges Dam yesterday. Where was she now in her investigation?

  David took a deep breath and picked up the story with Brian’s return to the University of Washington. He devoted himself to his classwork and to applying for a new Miller Fellowship. His journal evolved from being a personal record to being a place where he kept track of his research for his master’s thesis and future dissertation. He studied early jade, in particular bis and chimes. These shapes were the same as the objects that had been up for auction at Cosgrove’s last night. Brian had been looking at these pieces a year ago!

  He then began an examination of the differences between a gui and a ruyi. David bolted upright as he read that last word. Here again, Brian was interested in an object months ago that had catapulted David into this horrible situation. As usual, Brian stuck with an academic approach as he described the differences. Both objects shared similar inspirations and aspirations; both were considered scepters. But as time passed, guis— usually in the form of carved jade tablets—had ceased being given as “passports” for important assignments and had been used by court officials to hold in front of their mouths to deflect their breath away from the emperor. The ruyi, by contrast, was believed to have emerged centuries later from the Buddhist tradition. In its root or fungi form, it was used as a meditative object not unlike scholar’s rocks. People then began to make ruyis in other materials for use as scepters. They had also been given as imperial gifts for nuptials and in honor of deeds well done. Today the back scratcher with its fingerlike phalanges was a direct—though plebeian—descendant of the ruyi.

  Despite what the history books said, Brian had a very different take on the gui and ruyi. In archaeological terms, it seemed to him that the gui had to have developed after the ruyi, which had its source in a natural element. Again and again Brian went back to some obscure scholarly debate about Yu’s “dark-colored stone.” Had it been given at the beginning of Yu’s quest? Or was it, as some scholars believed, an object that Yu found in his travels—an artifact so precious and remarkable that it would be worthy of presentation to a sovereign? Was the stone actually a stone? Couldn’t it be interpreted as something dark and hard, like a petrified mushroom? “I think this could connect to what I found in the earth around Site 518,” Brian wrote. “I need to take this up with Angela but not until I’m absolutely sure. No point in getting her hopes up needlessly.”

  Again David stopped to reread the passage. This was the second time Brian had mentioned that there was something of interest at the dig to Angela.

  In mid-March, Brian had spun back again to Yu with the cryptic question

  Which version of Yu’s world is correct? Do we follow what is written in the Tribute of Yu document, which describes the Nine Provinces and Nine Tributes, paving the way for the first tithing system on earth?

  Xiao Da had talked about Nine Tributes. Was Brian beginning to question the All-Patriotic Society’s policies?

  On the other hand, what are we to make of Yu’s map of his domains? Yu ordered two officials to pace off the world from east to west and from north to south. They determined that the world was perfectly square. Leave it to a mathematician like Yu to come up with a scheme like that!

  Next to this was a full-page drawing showing Yu’s world with several squares lined up concentrically, each with its own designation. It was a crude version of the symbol David had seen on the top of the building near the Bank of China tower earlier tonight. How did it relate to any of this? Brian continued:

  Did Yu mean for the map to be taken literally or as a figurative map of politics and culture? Xiao Da has used it for commercial purposes, but I’m not so sure he understands its true significance. If he does, then he’s more dangerous than I thought. More research required.

  But by April, Brian had arrived at a conclusion that had nothing to do with Xiao Da.

  The pictographic nature of the Chinese language encourages the idea of mapping not only in the practical sense of creating a visual record of the domain but also within the language itself. Characters are not just words in the traditional sense; they are also geographic clues. E-mail Dr. Strong about this. It’s in the characters. I know it now!

  After bouncing from one interest to another—from Lily to Catherine, from Xiao Da to the vultures, from archaeology to literature—Brian had finally found his intellectual passion. He zeroed in on Yu, his map, and early Chinese language. According to the journal, Brian peppered Strong with e-mails, made charts of early characters found on dragon bones and how those characters had evolved into present-day Chinese, narrowing himself to those that were pictographic rather than phonetic in composition. The archaic character for below was a line with a dot below it, rain came down as drops falling from the sky, door was comparable to the swinging doors in a western saloon. Here was the character for mountain (three linked peaks), field (four cultivated squares), cave (a rounded portal with two boulders hanging in the corners), and river (the three squiggly lines David had seen branded into Lily’s forehead). Just as David had once been interested in the layering of written Chinese—how two trees created the word for “forest”—Brian expanded on certain ancient characters and their meanings. A river with a line drawn through it became misfortune or calamity—both caused by flooding—while a heart beneath a window illustrated the concept of alarm or agitation—to know with a tremulous heart what was coming.

  At the end of May, Brian received news that he’d been awarded a second Miller Fellowship, which would allow him to stay longer at Site 518 and flesh out his myriad ideas. He revisited his initial Miller proposal, added what he’d learned since he’d submitted it, and composed a draft of what he hoped would become his dissertation topic.

  Legend has it that China’s Three Gorges were created by a folk hero named Da Yu, who—with the help of dragons— configured China’s hills and valleys to drain the land and make it habitable for humans. Dragon bones are the mythical bones of dragons, which are said to have magical powers—the ability to give superhuman strength, the ability to heal, the ability to triumph over adversity, and the ability to lead. But dragon bones were actually oracle bones, which form the earliest recorded Chinese written language. However, the time has come for us to consider that there may be earlier “dragon bones” to be found in nature and that these—and not oracle bones—are the true source of Chinese characters. In these natural dragon bones we will find a skeletal structure, which gives the country its myths, political realities, and even its codes of behavior and emotional resonance. These “bones” (and longmai—veins) weave together a geography that holds China in an embrace of meaning, linking the plains and mountains of the physical world with the emotions, thoughts, and culture of the humans who reside upon it.

  Brian arrived back in Bashan on June 20. He made no mention of who was at the site other than Dr. Strong, with whom he shared his theories and discoveries. Unfortunately, Strong’s mind had slipped even further, and he was of little help. Brian wrote nothing more on his camping trips, what was being unearthed at the dig, or even the All-Patriotic Society. However, he did encounter Lily, and she was most adamant that he bring her new artifacts. He refused.

  Then, on June 30, he scribbled:

  Our joke on Lily has ended tragically. How much could she have paid Wu Huadong to dive in the whirlpool? Of course she denies any responsibility. In fact, she blames me. If I had brought her new artifacts from my “treasure trove,” as she now calls it, this never would have happened. How can she not take responsibility and blame
me at the same time? I’ll visit the Wus tomorrow and see if there’s anything I can do.

  The next day he wrote:

  Have now learned the truth. Only one way to salvage what I’ve done. Making one more trip to the cave. Imperative that Xiao Da never know what I’ve found. Must send photos to Angela in case it’s too late. I’ve been very stupid.

  During the last eighteen days of his life, Brian eschewed words, preferring to sketch local landmarks, paralleling them with their ancient Chinese characters: The meandering of the river next to the symbol for river, the doors of country houses and how they related to the character for door. He’d done the same with the characters for cliff and cave. On one page he’d attempted unsuccessfully to draw the face of a child but then had scratched it out. Next to it he’d written the character for good, which was composed of the pictograms for mother and child.

  The more David looked at these drawings, the more they appeared to be maps, because in one he recognized the perimeter of Site 518, with the various pits where artifacts had been found. Another showed the river, Bashan, the dig, and the Wu house with archaic characters dotted here and there. In the middle of these pages, one sheet had been torn out. Finally, and most important, Brian had become very tense and fearful, which was made even clearer by his final, sad entry written two days before his disappearance.

  July 17—Don’t know what to do. I can’t tell what I know and I can’t do the right thing either without putting other people’s lives in danger. I hope Angela understands what I sent her. Angela, if you read this and you haven’t figured it out yet, look at the photos. Really look! I love you and I’m sorry.

  Instead of signing his name, he’d carefully drawn the characters of a window above a trembling heart. He’d seen what was coming, but as the characters suggested, he’d been powerless to stop it.

  David closed the journal. Brian and Lily had died because of the ruyi. Bill Tang—who had been sent to Hong Kong to buy it—had nearly killed David. Whoever had the artifact now was a target.

  David jumped up, fought a wave of dizziness and nausea, then rushed into the bathroom. He pulled his sodden clothes out of the hamper and riffled through them until he found Stuart Miller’s card.

  DAVID RAN OUT THE BACK DOOR OF THE HOTEL AND JOGGED through the storm, away from the harbor and the business district toward Victoria Peak. He saw no cars or taxis plying the streets. A few minutes later, he’d gone past the entrances to the Peak Tram, the YMCA, and the Botanical Gardens. The area became increasingly residential, with great apartment towers all around him. The climb was steep, and his lungs burned with the effort of running uphill. The wound on his head throbbed, and his side hurt almost as much as when Tang had kicked him. David ran every day but not with this kind of pain. He stopped for a moment, put his hands on his knees, and tried to regain his breath. Then he pushed off his back leg and continued on.

  Land was at a premium in Hong Kong, and few homes remained within sight of the main harbor. David began to pass some of them and knew he was getting close. He turned onto another street and trotted another few hundred yards to Stuart Miller’s property. The electric gates were open, but all of the windows were shuttered against the storm. David bounded up the front steps, looked around, then as quietly as possible tried the doorknob. It turned. David hesitated. He could be wrong about all this. If he was, he’d be breaking into Stuart’s house. If he wasn’t and he opened the door, the sound of the storm might alert whoever was inside.

  David entered the house and closed the door behind him. Dr. Ma was sprawled in the middle of the foyer. A bullet had obliterated half his face, and blood had pooled around him on the marble floor. His one eye was open and unseeing. David edged around the body and peered into the living room. The lights were on, but the room was empty. The walls had been painted in muted earth tones, and the furniture blended into the sepulchral gloom. Museum-quality lighting focused attention solely on the art that lined the walls and perched on risers in the living room. Even to David’s untrained eye, the value of the art was incalculable. He readily spotted works from the Ming, Han, and Tang Dynasties. Having spent some time with the Cosgrove’s catalog, he also recognized bronze pieces from the Shang Dynasty, some of which had to be nearly four thousand years old.

  He systematically filtered out the sounds of the storm—the rattling of the shutters, tree branches hitting the sides of the house, the shrieking wind—until he heard voices upstairs. As stealthily as possible he climbed the stairs. A long hallway extended in front of him. To his left was a series of open doorways; to his right, more risers with archaic bronzes and carved pieces of jade. He moved down the hall, stopping before each open door to listen before crossing in front of the opening. He got to the end of the hall and one last open door. He recognized the voices of Stuart Miller and Bill Tang. David edged around the doorjamb. Stuart was tied to a chair. His face was puffy and bruised. Blood ringed his lips and dribbled down his chin. Tang had his back to the door. Another door on the far right of the room was open, but David couldn’t see what was inside. He pulled back and glanced around for a weapon. The heaviest thing he could see was a tableau carved in jade. He reached for it and hefted it in his hands. It weighed a few pounds. The tableau was rounded, but the bottom had an abruptly sharp edge. David shifted the piece in his hands. He took a deep breath, rushed into the room, and brought the tableau down on Tang’s head. The lieutenant crumpled to the floor, and David dropped the jade.

  “Untie me, dammit, before he wakes up.” Stuart struggled vainly against the rope.

  David untied Stuart, and together they used the rope to bind Tang’s feet and hands. The lieutenant didn’t budge. David felt for a pulse. Tang was alive, just out cold.

  Now that he was out of danger, Stuart collapsed into a chair. His face was pale, and his body shook. David grabbed a blanket off the bed and wrapped it around Stuart’s shoulders. Next he found the phone and called the police to report Ma’s murder. He was asked if anyone was in immediate jeopardy and answered that he didn’t think so. Then the police operator informed him that it might take a while before someone got there. The department was spread thin, dealing with the effects of the typhoon. Someone would come as soon as possible, but the police had an obligation during this disaster to attend to the living first.

  David crossed back to Stuart and sank to his haunches. “I take it you didn’t give Tang the ruyi.”

  “I wasn’t about to give it to that little shit,” Stuart said, still staring at the floor.

  “He would have killed you.”

  Stuart lifted his eyes. He looked terrible. The last thing David needed was for Stuart to keel over with a heart attack.

  “What happened?”

  Stuart began speaking in a monotone. He and Madame Wang had stayed at the banquet until one in the morning. He’d seen Madame Wang to her penthouse, stayed for a nightcap, and left her about three. He drove home and had just put the ruyi in the vault when he heard someone knock on the door. He thought a neighbor might be having problems with the storm, but when he unlocked the door Tang accosted him, demanding the ruyi.

  “I told him I didn’t have it, and things went downhill from there.” A bit of Stuart’s normal jauntiness came back, and he attempted a smile. “I bet I don’t look as bad as you do, though.” But this was no time for false bravado and Stuart knew it. “You saw Ma?”

  When David nodded, Stuart went on. “He must have followed Tang.” He shook his head as if to correct himself. “What I mean is, Tang started in on me, and Ma arrived soon after that. He must have come in….” He faltered. “I don’t know exactly….”

  “I want you to listen, Stuart. You need to give me the ruyi.”

  “If I didn’t give it to Tang—and believe me, he tried to make me—why would I give it to you?”

  “Several reasons. First, you need to get rid of the ruyi before someone kills you for it.” When Stuart didn’t seem to buy this, David added, “You’ve got to realize that someone like B
ill Tang doesn’t operate alone.”

  David didn’t add that Dr. Ma wasn’t acting alone either. If the ruyi was what David thought it was, the Ministry of State Security would never give up, which was why he had to get it to Hulan, not Vice Minister Zai, not Director Ho, but his wife, the one person in the world he trusted. She would know where it would be safest and cause the least harm.

  “Second,” he went on, “even if you don’t care about your own life, how would you feel if someone went after Catherine?”

  “That wouldn’t happen. Tang is just a thug—”

  “A thug who tried to kill me and now you.” David didn’t wait for Stuart to respond. “Third, you know the ruyi belongs to China. In addition, I’m going to make you a hero. And finally, in giving me the ruyi you’re going to become even richer than you already are.”

  “How’s that?”

  “You give me the ruyi before the police get here, then they don’t need to know that you’re in possession of a stolen artifact. I take the ruyi back to China and tell the government that you bought it at auction in order to return it to its homeland. Think of the gratitude. Think of the contracts you’ll get—forever.”

  Stuart considered the logic. As a lawyer, David knew that Stuart really had only one option. Finally Stuart said, “A hero, huh?”

  David nodded.

  “Not bad for three million dollars.” Stuart sounded nonchalant, but it had to have been a huge concession.

  “Not bad at all,” David agreed, “and it sure beats being tied up in litigation, or worse, ending up in a Chinese jail.”

  Stuart sighed long and hard. “All right.” He stood shakily. “Come with me.”