House of Trembling Leaves, The (26 page)

‘‘Found one!'' cried Sum Sum. She held aloft a dead caterpillar. The fungus visibly sprouted from the top of the creature's head like a set of horns. Tormam came over with a basket. Together they raked the ground for over an hour, pushing their fingers into the soil, occasionally pulling out a scaly-skinned insect.

At noon the sound of another passing aircraft distracted them. Sum Sum squinted and looked up. She saw the iron bird falling from the sky, half-rolling and then diving.

Moments later they all heard a crash. There was a clatter of steel against steel and the thud shook the ground. Jampa paled visibly; Sum Sum jumped. It felt as if someone had thrown a large sack of rice at her feet. Before anyone else could react, Sum Sum and Tormam were racing across the valley floor towards the downed plane.

It was a C-87 and it had crash-landed in an area of countryside devoid of trees and people. Sum Sum saw a long black trail gouged in the fresh grass and the metal fuselage shining in the sun two hundred metres away. The starboard wing was missing and there was damage to the tail; the closer she got the more she feared the plane would catch fire.

Sum Sum felt Tormam's hand on her arm. ‘‘The men in the plane. Will they be dead?'' asked Tormam. ‘‘I'm scared to see the blood.''

‘‘We must try to help them. If you see blood just imagine it's strawberry jam.''

Tormam looked nonplussed. ‘‘What is this strawberry jam?''

Parts of the engine were hissing. It sounded like gas escaping from a radiator. Sum Sum climbed up onto the main body of the aircraft. She tried to slide back the cockpit hood but it was jammed. She rubbed frost off the surface of the window and peered through the glass.

The crew sat upright in their seats. Their faces were hidden by their goggles and breathing masks. Not one of them moved. They looked asleep.

By now, the others had arrived. Most of the initiates, together with prayer hall manager Jampa, simply stood there, clutching the skirts of their robes, unsure how to proceed.

‘‘Fetch me a large stone,'' ordered Sum Sum.

Someone reached over and handed her a tapered rock the size of a bitter melon. Shielding her eyes, Sum Sum smashed the glass of the cockpit and removed the splintered debris. The three-man crew remained in their seats, strapped in tight. The pilot was in his flying suit. His gloved hands still grasped fast upon the stick.

Sum Sum crawled into the cockpit. One by one, she placed her fingertips on each man's neck. She took a deep breath. It confirmed what she'd already suspected – the crewmen were all dead.

There was no blood. No arms or legs were twisted into knotted shapes. They'd either died from the impact or from oxygen deprivation.

One of the other novices climbed into the compartment before Sum Sum could stop her. Entranced, she began to fiddle with the pilot's buckles, trying to undo the straps. When that failed she placed a hand on the throttle, then started to twiddle with a reflector light. She played with a trigger and flicked a red button from
safe
to
fire
.

‘‘Stop that!'' Sum Sum commanded.

Other novices peered through the cockpit entrance now. Rather than look at the dead crewmen, they reached in and fingered the displays by the instrument panel. Hands tapped against the oil pressure gauge. Thumbs pressed the rev counter, the altimeter, the oxygen and petrol dials.

‘‘Stop it!'' cried Sum Sum.

‘‘Who made you the abbess?'' protested the Oliver Hardy lookalike in a shrill voice.

‘‘There may be bombs aboard. What you want to do, blow us all up?''

When all the novices scurried away, Jampa's face appeared at the cockpit roof. ‘‘Are they Americans?'' she asked, panting.

Sum Sum nodded. ‘‘Yes, look, here are the eagle wings on his chest. And see, lah? It says USAAF on the flight suits.''

‘‘But the war with Japan is over. The Dalai Lama announced it Himself. The Japanese surrendered. Why are these planes still flying? Why do they keep airlifting weapons over the Himalayas?''

Sum Sum spotted a paper dossier by the pilot's hip with the words
Top Secret
stamped on its face. She undid the fastener. Inside there were charts and hand-drawn maps. The words were written in English.

Sum Sum finished reading and looked at Jampa who had been studying her every expression. ‘‘According to this, the Americans are preparing for a new war in China. A war between the Chinese Nationalists and the Chinese Communists. This time, I think the battle is going to be waged closer to home.''

Jampa and Sum Sum stared at one another. They heard the door of the hold being forced open. It was the villagers. They'd arrived on their horses. Already they were stripping the plane clean.

Seconds later they made out a groan. One of the airmen was still alive.

 

They lifted the injured airman into a yak-hide blanket and carried him back to the nunnery.

They laid him flat on the courtyard floor, under the shadows of an overhanging eave. One of the novices knelt by his side and placed a cooling jasmine cloth to his forehead. Sum Sum lifted a bowl to his mouth. The taste of the warm butter tea appeared to soothe him. Carefully, they removed his flying jacket and undid the front of his shirt to ease his breathing.

Everyone gathered round to get a look.

The whispering ceased as soon as the abbess emerged from her rooms. Like sparrows stilled by the shadow of a hawk, everyone grew quiet.

Looking harassed, Jampa bowed her head and spoke first. ‘‘He came through the clouds on an iron bird, over the great mountains.''

The abbess stood back and examined the airman critically from a distance as she would a yak whose milk had grown sour. ‘‘We have very strict rules. Men are not allowed.''

‘‘We understand that, your reverence,'' said Jampa between tightened lips. ‘‘However, the stranger's wounds seem grave.''

‘‘You must take him to the monastery. The High Abbott will decide how to treat him. Only he has the ripeness and wisdom for such things.''

‘‘But if we move him he will die,'' Sum Sum challenged. ‘‘We can save him if he stays here. The monastery is several miles away.''

Jampa click-clacked her tongue, anxious to diffuse the tension in the air.

Radiating disapproval, the abbess locked eyes with Sum Sum. ‘‘We know nothing of his kind. Look at him; he has ink pictures on his chest. These white men are men of war, they are as hard as their far-flung accents. We must leave this to the High Abbott. And you, Sengemo, must learn to hold your tongue. You are in a nunnery now. You cannot say something simply because you want to. Continue showing dissent and you will find yourself struggling to remain here.''

Sum Sum nodded gravely back at her but did not lower her eyes submissively. She felt no regret about speaking out. Affronted, the abbess shook out her robes and retreated to her rooms, vanishing through a little doorway.

Sum Sum fixed her thoughts on the abbess's words. The phrase ‘struggling to remain here' took on new meaning. She gave a puff of exhaustion and felt a flutter of emotions – defiance, pride, anger and dread. It was the dread of being alone once more. But right now she didn't care what the abbess thought. She'd done a good thing. She'd helped save a man's life. And if they didn't appreciate her then she would leave.

Sum Sum marched off towards her dormitory. The whispering began again as soon as she was out of sight.

It was late afternoon of the Mid-Autumn Festival and a fortnight into the Malayan liberation.

The day had been stifling – to Uncle Big Jowl it was like being smothered by a steaming-hot towel in a barbershop. Slouched in the coolest nook of the big house, he fanned his sweaty cheeks with a banana leaf, wearing the expression of a man who had just realized he'd boarded the wrong bus.

From the garden he heard the violent thud of hammer on nail; from the kitchen he smelt the warm red-bean perfume of freshly baked moon cakes.

Mabel, in flannel pyjamas, padded across the floor in bare feet and sat on his lap. ‘‘Your mother traded some old umbrellas for a packet of red bean paste, I see,'' he said. ‘‘Aahh, if you become as resilient as her, I will be proud.''

‘‘Guess what?'' said Mabel. ‘‘Uncles Peter and James are squabbling again.''

‘‘
Ai-yoo
, such bloody nincompoops. In the old days we were lucky, aahh! Nobody really ever argued apart from your grandfather and Second-aunty Doris, God rest their souls.'' Uncle Big Jowl removed a monogrammed hankie from his pocket and wiped his brow. ‘‘In those days, living in such a big home with so many others, if you didn't like someone, aahh, it didn't matter. You had an argument with your brother? So what! You go sit at dinner with your uncle or your sister or your nephew, or your sister-in-law or one of your five nieces. Every meal was twenty, maybe thirty people, sometimes more. And after we eat we play mah-jong.''

Mabel stared up at the huge, glistening face. ‘‘More than thirty people?'' She rested her face on his tummy as if it were an overstuffed pillow.

Uncle Big Jowl rocked her on his lap then winced. ‘‘
Ai-yooo!
Bloody arthritic knees! This fifty-eight-year-old body's no good, lah!'' He wiped his brow again and shook out his shirt. ‘‘Family and friends all mixing together like jigsaw puzzle in a box. After a while you forget you ever had an argument with your brother in the first place.''

Just as he said this, two raised voices interrupted the nail-hammering.

They went to see what the squabbling was about this time, Uncle Big Jowl swaying from side to side as he walked. ‘‘
Ai-yoooo!
What on earth are you pair of maddos doing now?''

‘‘What does it look like we're doing?'' answered Peter, hitching up his oversize shorts. He had a mallet in his hand. His gaze was bright yet glassy like a radical priest with an opium habit. ‘‘We are preparing for the second coming! I'm building James' coffin.''

‘‘And I'm building Peter's. His is going to be a Toe Pincher.''

‘‘Next, we're going to design the lettering for our headstones.''

‘‘But why, aahh, aahh?'' exclaimed Uncle Big Jowl, performing a double-cock of the head.

‘‘It's cheaper,'' said James with a nonchalant shrug, ‘‘and it reminds us of our own mortality.'' He stooped to plane the side of a plywood panel.

‘‘Cheaper?'' Peter protested. ‘‘This has nothing to do with money.''

‘‘I remember you saying it would be a good investment.''

‘‘Yes, a
spiritual
investment.''

‘‘Nonsense, you were thinking about the money.''

‘‘Are you calling me a Cheap-Charlie?''

‘‘I cannot believe you're my brother, we have nothing in common,'' James sighed.

‘‘Not true, we both like satays. And cabbage and – ''

‘‘You are such a child!''

‘‘Oh and you're not!''

Fidgeting in his oversize shorts, James pinched his kneecaps together. ‘‘Listen, can we continue this later? I need a pee-pee break.''

Uncle Big Jowl looked at Mabel and rolled his eyes. ‘‘Pair of top-class nincompoops,'' he muttered.

Just then Mother and Lu See appeared at the bottom of the drive, waving Union Jack banners to get their attention. ‘‘They're coming, they're coming!'' Lu See cried. ‘‘Hurry! Or you'll miss them! Drop the mallets and grab the mooncakes!''

With several trays of mooncakes in hand, Lu See led the charge as they raced down the windy path into the village. The kampong was lined with cheering people brandishing flags, giving the thumbs up, hopping up and down in excitement. Bunting and messages of welcome hung from the upturned eaves of the village temple. A ribbon of children, arms linked, yelled like mad in front of a home-made
Arc de Triomphe.

‘‘Here they come!'' The crowd pressed forward. A convoy of heavy vehicles kicked up dust in the near distance. The rumble of engines and the rattle, clank and squeak of metal gears and steel springs grew closer. Vickers Light tanks, Bren-gun carriers and armoured cars thundered up, bouncing over ruts, arriving with the hubbub and anticipation of the carnival coming to town. As they slowed to a snail's pace the villagers ran alongside. An officer in a jeep, with his beret folded into his shoulder lapel, made V for Victory signs with both hands. All about him people clapped with glee.

A dozen more Bedfords crawled past as teenage girls teased out their hair, beckoning flirtatiously. Everyone rang their bicycle bells and squeezed their
toot-toot
hand horns. The armoured vehicles slowed and wheezed to a stop to take in the celebratory atmosphere. Bringing up the rear was the infantry – The Royal Lincolnshire Regiment in berets and the Gurkhas in terai hats; row upon row of dark tropical green, chanting and whistling as their boots thrummed the ground.

Lu See stared at the lines of solid Himalayan faces and briefly thought of Sum Sum. Somewhere behind her Uncle Big Jowl waved his Union Jack frantically.

Peter and James began singing ‘God Save the King' as others flung rice and coconut shavings into the air. Mr Ko, the shopkeeper, held aloft the village goose which gave an
onk-onk
of complaint. Two little boys, legs lubricated by adrenaline, ran alongside with a handful of wild flowers showering the troops sat along the turrets with yellows and pinks; one of them mounted a tank to shake their hands.

‘‘Where are you heading?'' someone yelled.

‘‘Kuala Lumpur!'' came the reply.

And then they were gone, like a child's balloon seized by the wind. The last of the armoured trucks sped by, heading south towards the capital, trailing cast-iron drifts of dust to the sound of grinding machinery and lead shot grumbling in a drum. A few of the barefoot boys ran after them.