The Old Dragon’s Head
By Justin Newland
Publication Date: 28th November 2018
Publisher: Troubador Publishing Ltd.
Page Length: 257 pages
Genre: Historical Fiction
The Great Wall of China may be constructed of stone and packed earth, but it is home to a supernatural beast – the Old Dragon. Both wall and dragon protect China’s northern borders from Mongol incursion. Just beyond the fortress of Shanhaiguan, the far eastern end of the wall protrudes into the Bohai Sea – that’s the Old Dragon’s Head.
Bolin, a young man working on the Old Dragon’s Head, suffers visions of ghosts. The local seer suspects that he has yin-yang eyes and other supernatural gifts. Bolin’s fief lord, the Prince of Yan, rebels against his nephew, the Jianwen Emperor. In the bitter war of succession, the Mongols hold the balance of power. While the victor might win the battle on earth, China’s Dragon Throne can only be earned with a Mandate from Heaven – and the support of the Old Dragon.
In every era, a man endowed with the powers of heaven – the Dragon Master – is born. Only he can summon the Old Dragon, providing he possesses the dragon pearl. It’s the year 1402, and neither the Old Dragon, the dragon pearl, nor the Dragon Master, has been seen for twenty years.
Bolin’s journey of self-discovery is mirrored by that of old China, as both endeavour to come of age. When Bolin accepts his destiny as the Dragon Master, heaven sends a third coming of age – for humanity itself. But are any of them ready for what is rising in the east?
♥ Excerpt ♥
After the prince disappeared into his quarters, everyone hauled themselves off the ground, brushed the dirt and leaves from mud-stained robes. Throughout the rest of the day, Bolin and Cui helped the fortress troops find billets for the arriving prince’s army. Bolin didn’t know what to think about them. Yes, they were conquering heroes, but they were rebels too, fighting against kith and kin.
As dusk fell and the last remnants of the cavalry units trudged over the drawbridge, Bolin tripped over a lip in the pavement, just managing to keep his balance. If that wasn’t a warning to tread with more care in his life, what was? He couldn’t shake the nagging feeling that he was at odds with himself and the world.
The ghost of an army general had struck terror in him and sowed panic amongst the prince’s battle-hardened warriors. In a state of war, how could he be at peace with the Tao? The fabric of the world was out of joint, like a clown becoming an Emperor, or an Emperor becoming a clown.
Tonight was the turn of the tide, the eve of the New Year, the eve of the new – the dark – moon. When the darkness of yin was full, the light-giving yang returned and the Heavenly cycle recommenced. On the crest of a propitious wave, he resolved to make a new start.
When dusk fell, Bolin came off duty and went straight to meet Cui in the throng gathering in the Bell and Drum Square. Scores of lictors hurried around its perimeter lighting the torches and placing them back on their cradles. A small battalion of men was hauling planks of wood, branches and anything flammable into the centre of the square for the bonfire.
The Shanhai villagers and off-duty soldiers were swelled by officials including the magistrate, constables, commissioners, mandarins and other officials from the Yamen, as well as the tailor, carpenter and silk merchant, blacksmith and rice merchant. Peddlers touting sausages, duck and chicken vied with others selling tea, wine and rice vodka under the shadows of the Bell and Drum Tower. The traditional red lanterns swayed in the breeze blowing off the Bohai Sea. The animated crowd, the rich smell of dumplings and the boisterous activities of a troupe of acrobats and stilt walkers drew his attention away from past anxieties to present joys.
Bolin stood as near as he could to the Zhendong Gate, a formidable tower with walls thirty paces thick and crowned by another tower with two elevations. Beneath it ran an arched tunnel, with a drawbridge and moat at the outer end and heavy wooden gates at the inner end, which was where Bolin was stood. Like the rest of the crowd, he wanted to be the first to see the procession of acrobats, singers, dancers and musicians gathering at the far, moat end of the tunnel.
While they waited, folk chatted amongst themselves, exchanging gifts, greetings and well wishes. Lovers embraced. Mothers fussed over their sons and fathers hoisted their young daughters onto their shoulders.
A procession of monks entered the tunnel to clear away debris and litter. Behind a donkey cart, a monk carrying a bag of sackcloth hurried along, head bowed and a burning torch in his hand, examining the path with furious intent. Jin was the assistant to the Abbot of the Temple of the Eight Immortals. From previous years, Bolin knew what Jin was looking for and called out, “Did you find any yet?”
“Indeed I have, Master Bolin, indeed I have,” Jin looked up and nodded. His round moon face shone with perspiration.
“Show me?” Bolin asked.
Jin obliged by plunging his hand into the sack and held out his palm, saying, “This is the biggest piece. I reckon it must have sheared off a passing cart.”
As his head swirled and his temples pounded, Bolin let out a long, slow groan. He gazed at the piece of metal and swooned. He would have fallen over if Cui hadn’t propped him up.
“What’s the matter, young fella? Is it the iron this time?” Cui asked, gripping his elbow.
“I-I don’t know. It must be,” Bolin replied. His heart was thumping like he’d run up the spiral stairs of the Great Pagoda.
“Dear Bolin, may the healing gods look kindly on you,” Jin said with due reverence. “I must pick up every last piece of iron from the path of the procession. Iron is an enemy of the spirit worlds, of the old dragon – the Laolong – and, it would appear, of you. Please excuse me, so I can remove it from your presence – and everyone else’s.”
As soon as Jin took the iron away, the pressure on Bolin’s head eased. He could actually think again. The iron had brought on the head pains, yet the only metal he’d ever been sensitive to was silver, in the main because he never had any of it; not a single tael. When he was a child, he was friends with the son of the blacksmith and iron was strewn around his workshop. Bolin wasn’t sensitive to it then, so what had changed? His life was growing deep veins of instability. What was he seeing through these yin-yang eyes? A man falling to his death? A ghost soldier? He whistled. Was he going mad?
His novels speculate on the human condition and explore the fundamental questions of our existence. As a species, as Homo sapiens sapiens – that’s man the twice-wise – how are we doing so far? Where is mankind’s spiritual home? What does it look or feel like? Would we recognise it if we saw it?
Undeterred by the award of a Doctorate in Mathematics from Imperial College, London, he found his way to the creative keyboard and conceived his debut novel, The Genes of Isis (Matador, 2018), an epic fantasy set under Ancient Egyptian skies.
Next came the supernatural thriller, The Old Dragon’s Head (Matador, 2018), set in Ming Dynasty China.
His third novel, The Coronation (Matador, 2019), speculates on the genesis of the most important event of the modern world – the Industrial Revolution.
His fourth, The Abdication (Matador, 2021), is a supernatural thriller in which a young woman confronts her faith in a higher purpose and what it means to abdicate that faith.
His stories add a touch of the supernatural to history and deal with the themes of war, religion, evolution and the human’s place in the universe.
He was born three days before the end of 1953 and lives with his partner in plain sight of the Mendip Hills in Somerset, England.
Thank you for hosting Justin Newland with The Old Dragon's Head today, Mary Anne. Much appreciated. xx
ReplyDeleteHi Mary Anne. Thanks for hosting this top on the tour. have a good one!
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