House of Trembling Leaves, The (29 page)

The remains.
The word burned like a flame in her chest – a moment of sickly realization.

She stared at the wristwatch and the gold band in her hand. The wristwatch had stopped ticking. Lu See retched once; then twice. Whirling round she was sick on the floor, her insides gushing out like bilge water squeezed from a sponge.

 

Lu See flipped through the pages of her father's old leather bound tome. Adrian had mentioned something years ago about Arrowroot.

‘‘I think he may have a urinary infection,'' she said to Matriarch Woo.

‘‘What can we do?'' the mother despaired.

Lu See searched through the index, flicked from one silverfished page to another, found the section headed
Maranta arundinacea
. ‘‘It says here that Arrowroot plant is abundant in certain parts of Asia and produces soft, oval-shaped leaves up to ten inches long. Look, here's a picture. The Malay word for it is
Koova. Fun koat
in Cantonese. White flowers. Currant-like berries. Apparently it grows inland, in well-drained soil.'' Moments later the entire household staff went into the forest armed with lamps and candles in search of the tree.

At long last they returned with a basketful of rhizomes. Lu See instructed them to grind the rootstalks into a powder and mix it with boiled water to make a thin gruel. Propping his head up, Lu See dribbled spoonfuls from a bowl into the boy's mouth.

An hour went by. Fresh candles replaced the guttered ones. Lu See kept vigil over the boy.

‘‘His fever is breaking,'' announced the child's mother.

Lu See approached him and felt for the radial artery on his wrist. ‘‘His pulse is stronger.'' She saw the sweat gleaming like copper off his forehead. ‘‘Perspiring will help cool him down. Just make sure he drinks plenty of water.''

‘‘He is sleeping soundly now,'' observed Matriarch Woo. ‘‘I think the medication has worked.''

‘‘Then I shall leave you,'' said Lu See, folding her hands in farewell.

As she left the room Matriarch Woo called after her. The old lady took Lu See's arms in hers. ‘‘For years I have hated you for returning without my son. For years I blamed you for his death. For years I have ignored my own granddaughter … and for that I feel regret.''

Lu See studied her face, which still carried the haunted struggles of a mother who'd lost her son.

‘‘Thank you, Lu See,'' she said. They looked deep into one another's eyes – Adrian's mother smiled a sad smile. ‘‘I wish,'' she said in a soft voice. ‘‘I wish there was some way, some key into the past to change things, but there isn't.''

‘‘All my memories of him are sealed in one place …'' her voice trailed off. ‘‘Like a shrine.''

‘‘Thank you for healing the child. I can see now why my Adrian married you.''

Lu See dipped her head and kissed the old lady's hand. When she reached the bottom of the stairs she slipped off Adrian's old wristwatch and left it on the hall table before retreating into the shadows of the night.

 

With the help of a military chaplain, Uncle Big Jowl obtained the use of an army lorry and three shovel-wielding coolies.

He drove the lorry to the periphery of the jungle and instructed the coolies to start digging at a spot marked with a gravestone.

Lu See and Mabel knelt close by in the undergrowth, shaded from the sun. ‘‘Is this where the treasure is?'' Mabel asked, trying not to sound excited.

‘‘Yes, just be patient,'' replied Lu See. Her face was scarlet with anticipated triumph.

One of the coolies held back the encroaching elephant grass as the other two stuck their shovels into the earth. Ten minutes later they stopped working.

‘‘Have they found it?'' cried Mabel, running up to peer into the excavated ditch.

Among the coarse earth and broken weed stalks, wedged into the soil, was a large wooden box.

‘‘What's this?'' Lu See demanded. ‘‘This wasn't here before. We put down canvas.'' She looked at Uncle Big Jowl, trying to make sense of it. ‘‘I don't understand. We didn't bury this, we buried pipes,'' she told the coolies. ‘‘Copper pipes. I wrapped them myself in oiled canvases.''

‘‘No pipes here,'' proclaimed the head coolie. ‘‘You want us to bring it up?''

The coolies lifted the box out of the hole and placed it on solid ground. The box was about three-feet long by two-feet wide. It was coated in a green moss.

Everyone stared at it.

Uncle Big Jowl crouched down and placed his hand on the lid.

‘‘Careful!'' warned a coolie. ‘‘The Japanese might be responsible for this. It may be booby-trapped!'' But Uncle Big Jowl didn't withdraw his hand. Rather, he positioned his other hand on the far end of the lid and dug his fingers into the grooves, easing it off its hinges.

‘‘What do you see?'' asked Mabel, almost hopping now with excitement. ‘‘What's inside?''

Uncle Big Jowl removed the canvas covering.

Lu See stared in horror. She shrieked and shielded her daughter's face with her arm.

Coffin flies flew up from the putrefying skull.

Worms had eaten away the animal's eyes. Its face was pulled back in a grimace. Only bone and tufts of black curly wool remained.

It was the severed head of a sheep.

It was the ninth week of Sum Sum's apprenticeship. At precisely 5 a.m. she woke for the daily morning prayers. The cold bit into her toes and feet as she shuffled into the hall and joined the murmuring mouths. It was her job to light the endless rows of yak-butter candles in the prayer hall. With a long taper she bent forward time and again, reciting the Kyema Kyhud, stumbling over the words which were punctuated with ringing bells and cymbals and deep horn blasts. One after the other the tiny flames illuminated the massive gold statue of Shakyamuni Buddha, draped in saffron and yellow cloths.

The lamps gradually brought the image to life – Buddha seated on a lotus pedestal constructed from inlaid gold leaf panels with the upper section of the throne reinforced with vertical
vajra
sceptres

When the final lamp was lit, Sum Sum knelt on her novice carpet and quietly, unhurriedly looked about for Tormam.

Tormam still slept beside her in the dormitory. She had the somewhat easier duty of replenishing the Seven Bowls of Water on all of the altars. Sum Sum gave the young, shy-faced girl a wink as she took her position beside her on the novice rug as all around her the shaven heads bobbed in prayer, up and down, up and down, like windup toys.

Later, the new companions sat next to each other, in the breakfast hall. Bowls of
tsampa
lined the long wooden tables. Everybody ate with their fingers.

‘‘Listen, we have been here for weeks, lah, and still nobody had told us where we can have baths. Do you know where we can go to wash?'' asked Sum Sum, worrying the mala beads on her wrist.

‘‘Tormam paused from chewing her barley balls. ‘‘Wash?''

‘‘Shush!'' someone warned and all the initiates, some of whom were no more than fifteen years old, dipped their heads.

After breakfast as they lit incense and spun the prayer wheel, Sum Sum asked again. Tormam gave her the same blank look and reply. ‘‘Wash?''

‘‘
Rey
.'' Sum Sum made gestures with her hands as if rinsing her armpits and back.

‘‘I do not understand?''

‘‘In your village don't you have a stream or an outhouse?''

‘‘I'm from a family of nomads. We did our business in the open. To clean ourselves we rinsed our faces in yak milk. I was never allowed to wash my hair. My mother said it would freeze on my head.''

Sum Sum raised her eyebrows theatrically. ‘‘You mean to tell me you have never had a bath, lah?''

Tormam looked at her blankly.

They grew silent, contemplating their barley balls.

‘‘What are we going to do about this?''

‘‘About what?'' said Tormam, nonplussed.

‘‘This … this no-bathing scenario,'' Sum Sum replied, not sure what to call it.

‘‘I have no idea what you are talking about. Look, Sengemo, finish up your breakfast. It is almost lessons time.''

 

The following morning at precisely 5 a.m. Sum Sum nudged Tormam awake with her elbow. She'd spent half the night staring out of the dormitory window, gazing at the fingernail sliver of moon, dreaming up an idea; all around her the other novices slept, open-mouthed, filling the dormitory with the sounds of snoring.
Aiyo! Like sleeping with a band of piglets.

‘‘I've got it,'' she said, watching Tormam wipe the sleep from her eyes.

‘‘Well don't give it to me, whatever it is. I am too tired.''

‘‘No, listen. I have a plan, lah.'' She peeped over her shoulder to assure nobody else was listening.

‘‘A plan?'' Tormam said, her tone nonchalant – until she saw the expression on Sum Sum's face.

They dressed and made their way to the prayer hall, thirty women in a crocodile line, bare feet padding across the floor. Scarves of incense perfumed the air. ‘‘This plan of yours, what – ''

‘‘
SSHHH!
'' quietened prayer hall manager Jampa.

Several pairs of buttocks clenched tightly together.

In a hushed voice: ‘‘What is this plan?'' asked Tormam self-consciously. When she spoke she always looked as though she had made a mistake and hadn't really meant to say anything at all.

Leaning towards her, Sum Sum whispered fiercely, ‘‘The plan is for you to experience heaven.''

‘‘You are going to kill me and send me to Nirvana?''

‘‘Not that sort of heaven.''

‘‘The scriptures say there is only one type.''

‘‘
Aiyoo!
Did your mother drop you on your head as a baby? No, I am going to collect water from the river and heat it up and you are going to sit in it.''

Tormam's eyes blinked at this. ‘‘You are going to boil me alive.''

Sum Sum gave a sigh. ‘‘Yes, in hot water.''

In the prayer hall Tormam arranged herself on a novice rug. ‘‘And this is a good thing.''

Sum Sum lit a row of yak-butter candles with a long taper. ‘‘Keep your voice down. Yes, it is a good thing.''

‘‘You have either become enlightened overnight, Sengemo, or you have been chewing Chinese opiates.''

‘‘Trust me.''

 

The village of Cloudy Treetops was named after the trees that sat in near constant cloud at the top of the hill. In spring, with the snows melted, goat herders gathered here for the new succulent grass, while the novice nuns pounded laundry on the washing stones along the banks of the nearby stream. Beyond this, dwarfed by the landscape around it, was the Sera Valley, where the American plane had crash-landed.

Sum Sum squinted into the distance, searching for any signs of the abandoned aircraft; the fuselage of the crashed C-87 was no longer visible. It had been dismantled, stripped clean piece by piece, by villagers and nomads alike; the cargo of guns and military equipment pilfered to be sold across the border. There was nothing to show that it had ever been there bar some broken glass and the tatty scuff of earth where the tyres had skidded on landing. It was as if a hole had opened in the ground and swallowed it up.

Sum Sum thought about the poor airman.

Word had arrived from the monastery that he'd failed to recover from his wounds. Sum Sum remained convinced they could have saved him if he hadn't been moved. She blamed the abbess. However, she knew she had to grow beyond that now, especially as her relationship with the abbess seemed to have healed. Of course, she continued to make the odd blunder; she was still getting used to monastic etiquette, but gradually she was gaining the sense that she belonged.

‘‘Come, let's see how long it takes to reach the water,'' Sum Sum said to Tormam.

Swathed in a yak-hide blanket, it took ten minutes for Sum Sum to walk from the nunnery to the banks of the stream. The terrain beneath her feet was gravelly and dry, the grass as tough as coir. On her return, under a persimmon sky, gazing at the winged roofs of the Ani Trangkhung Nunnery, she said to Tormam, ‘‘This is my plan.'' She set down her basket of damp, freshly washed robes and rubbed the needle-sharp chill from her hands. ‘‘We do this, lah. We take a hand sled with two empty rice barrels on its back and pull it to the river's edge. Once there we fill up with river water or ice chips and cart it back to the drying room, you know which one I mean, the room used for drying yak dung for fuel.'' Tormam nodded, rather wishing the nunnery had running water. ‘‘We may have to do this several times.''

‘‘And if someone asks what we are doing we say …?''

‘‘What do you mean?''

‘‘Why are we transporting barrels? Is it drinking water for the table?''

‘‘No, lah, the kitchen do that.''

‘‘What then?''

‘‘We are making soup.''

Tormam blinked at this. ‘‘Soup, well, yes, of course. Why wouldn't we be?''

‘‘No, listen, lah, I am serious. You see all these scrubby plants growing wild here. It is traditional Tibetan medicine, what English call wormwood, can be treatment for malaria. We say we are boiling up an herbal soup for the abbess.''

‘‘The abbess?'' cried Tormam, who panicked at the mere thought of the elderly priestess.

‘‘Yes, for the abbess, and the herbal soup requires plenty of clean river water.''

‘‘You have already been in trouble with the abbess. Can't we get water from the kitchen, from their round vats?''

‘‘No. They will get suspicious. We fetch it ourselves from the river.'' A supressed smile of anticipation washed across Sum Sum's face as she spoke. ‘‘You excited?''