The Call of the Thunder Dragon (54 page)

They crossed the busy street away
from the railway station. They found a hotel, recently built,
immaculate, neat and clean, contrasting the roads that were muddy,
pitted with potholes and in places running with stinking water.
Traffic passed by without pause; motorcycles laden with bamboo,
elephants with lumber or bales of goods from the fields, all
plodding into the station. Just as many trucks rolled out one after
the other, back to the fields to reload.

Out of the busy, dusty street,
they found themselves in a decent clean foyer, greeted with
well-rehearsed manners. Declining the offer of rooms they asked for
the saloon bar where they sat and made plans.

The first priority was lunch and
then other supplies for the rest of their journey, their rice and
dried meat supply having been exhausted.

They had a lunch of tea, beer,
and roasted rice cakes. Followed by a hot spicy fish broth, tasting
heavily of curry leaves, ginger and lemon.

Falstaff’s amenable questioning
of the staff raised interest in the pair, service was exceptional
right down to the staff helping with directions, a map and hand
chosen bicycle rickshaw driver to take them to the Pan Bazar.

The Pan Bazar was a bustling
marketplace right in the heart of the lively city centre along the
packed banks of the river. Falstaff and Zam were forced to adjust
to the noise and crowds, beggars and street vendors both singing
out. Cars honking their horns and rickshaws pushing their way
through the murkiness of the overpopulated centre they had seen
from above.

Despite the bustle, the people in
the bazaar were pleasant and friendly. By the time they’d traversed
the
market
along the southern bank of the
Brahmaputra River, they had stocked up on food.

Falstaff found a sports shop to
fix his Webley revolver. Handing over the waterlogged gun wrapped
in an oily rag. Explanation of its condition took some time to the
shop clerk. Who refused to believe the weapon had fired in the
water, under the surface of a lake.

“Where is this monster fish?” He
laughed, “You have it? Do you have a picture?”

Falstaff shook his head. “It
would have been a good picture, but I was too busy bleeding to
care!”

Falstaff while they waited for
his gun to be cleaned and oiled, he bought another case, more gun
oil and a cleaning kit to replace the one lost in the bombing of
the airstrip back in China.

Outside in the street Falstaff
nervously looked up and down, the memory of the last visit to such
a shop fresh in his mind. He lingered slowly looking around, unable
to shake off the feeling that he was being watched.

Zam pulled his arm. “Come on, you
don’t need to worry. From craving, fear is born. For someone freed
from craving there is no grief - so why fear?”

Falstaff snapped out of his
malaise. “I’m not afraid, just wary that’s all! Since when did you
start being so smart?”

“I’m not afraid. I trust you.”
Zam laughed, giggling infectiously.

Falstaff looked around again
glowering.

Zam pulled his arm, “Come on, the
Japanese are not following us anymore!”

“How do you know?” Falstaff
hissed through gritted teeth. “Guwahati is more likely to have
spies than anywhere else!”

“Nothing will happen to us
though!” Zam said firmly. “Stop worrying I trust you! I don't
suppose you’d think about that?”

“Thanks, I appreciate that, I
think?” Falstaff looked around once more. “Let’s get going!”

Chapter Twelve – Escape to the West

Myitkyina, Burma

The British municipal police
were used to dealing with the tough drunken coolies and the odd
mountain bandit. The weird and wonderful, the best and worst of the
Orient and India but all relatively harmless. They could handle
whatever was thrown at them, most of the time. However, their
latest prisoner was an entirely new type. A deadly armed assassin
and a dangerous prisoner even when unarmed. They knew nothing about
him; other than the suspected accusation that he was a Japanese
assassin.

The assassin had refused to
speak, even when hauled before the magistrate of Jorhat.
Headquarters in Rangpur sent officials to talk to him. After a
brief interview, one left with a broken nose and a broken arm. The
other left, missing a finger, bitten off and swallowed whole.

The assassin sneered at their
endeavours.

Four more men had been injured,
with broken bones and all while the prisoner was handcuffed or
chained. After two days, he hadn’t spoken a single word. He had
eaten but refused to change clothes or wear those offered to him.
His stubbornness and silence unnerved his guards as did his speed
and reflexes. He jumped at every opportunity to inflict injury or
attempt escape.

The prisoner was closely watched
now, but still he managed to slip away from them and out of his
cell, rushing the instant the doors were unlocked.

Now he was watched by two armed
guards whenever the door was opened. He was forced to turn his back
first so handcuffs could be fitted to wrists and ankles.

Today, they would finally to rid
of him. The prisoner was to be taken away and dealt with by an
intelligence agent.

Ono Itchi had been told he was to
be moved. It was their mistake, forewarning him. Also, the routine
of the two guards, the fitting of handcuffs were now just that,
routine. Ono had a measure of the guards while they remained scared
of him.

“Stand away from the door!” The
order came same as always. Ono turned to face them, glaring his
black eyes burning with fire at any one of the guards who dared
look him in the eye.

“Stand away from the door, face
the wall!” The English Superintendent shouted,

Ono remained fixed where he
was.

“Stand back or we shoot!” He
repeated, then nodded to one the native constables.

After a brief pause, they fired
into the air, then levelled the pistol at him.

“Stand away from the door!”
Bellowed the Superintendent, straining his voice. He nodded to the
armed constable, who fired at the door.

Ono stood his ground, despite the
dust and smoke from the discharge of the weapons in the still air
of the prison. His eyes stared unflinchingly despite the splitters
that had flown off the edge of the door by the blast. The noise in
the enclosed space was deafening, but Ono stood still, unblinking
with his eyes penetrating the air, burning into the Superintendent
’s brain.

“God in Heaven! What type of man
is this?” The Superintendent looked away and stood back, giving the
order. “Open the door, keep your guns on him.”

The door opened a crack, the
first constable slowly entered. Too slowly. Ono kicked the door
shut, hard on the advancing guard’s arm, ripping the pistol from
the guard’s hand, he turned it on its former owner and then
Superintendent in the corridor outside. Both went down shot through
the heart.

The second constable tried to put
his weight against the door to force it open. His last mistake,
instead of relocking it he carried on blindly with his last order,
forcing the door open. He fell to the floor as a third bullet
exploded ripping through the back of his head.

Ono was in the corridor in a
heartbeat, pausing to collect the fallen weapons, he ran, not
towards the stairs where the remaining guards had run but towards
the end of the corridor.

“Where is he?” The white European
sergeant on the lockup gate demanded.

“I think he ran the other way?”
The bewildered constable gasped, “He ran into the dead end?”

“Get ready, he’ll be coming this
way soon!” The sergeant said keeping the gate locked.

“Can’t you let us out first?”

“Just keep your guns on the
stairs!” The sergeant insisted.

They waited, but no one came.

Ono dusted himself off, tucking
the two spare revolvers into his belt, he ignored the bleeding
scars and scrapes he’d received climbing through the narrow window
at the end of the lockup corridor. Unlike the cell windows, this
one had no bars on it, another weakness he had observed and
exploited.

Ono ran through Jorhat, ducking
through the back streets towards the safe house he and Abe had
previously been staying at. He reached the room he and Abe had
shared via the window and found both stashes of the money they had
left. Although it was a safe house, technically run by Japanese
sympathizers he took no chances and left stealthily, heading for
the boat he’d left hidden near the river.

Once there, he changed his
clothes and himself reunited with his Guquin and the weapons it
contained. Reequipped he went in search of the Magistrate's house,
where he hoped to be reunited with his grandfather’s Ninjaken.

The bicycle rickshaw, laden with
rice, dried meat, fruit, tea, coffee and a few souvenirs that Zam
had acquired along the way, pulled up by the riverside. Falstaff
jumped from the rickshaw and the driver waited patiently as he had
all day acting as their impromptu city guide.

The young bicycle rider insisted
that they cross on the ferry to see North Guwahati, offering his
services further to take them across. Falstaff tried to resist the
idea, at first, then realised it was an opportunity to relax,
stretch his legs and spend some time with Zam, that didn’t involve
being shot at, lying in a sick bed or flying high in frigid air
thousands of feet over the mountains.

The ferry crossing took a long
time, irritated Falstaff looked at his watch, but could only sit
and watch as the boat struggled against the rushing water. The
slowly approaching shore was completely lined with trees. Falstaff
couldn’t see beyond the green curtain, but above spires and domes
could be made out reaching for the sky.

They finally reached the far
shore and dismounted while the rickshaw driver peddled the laden
buggy off the boat. The crossing had taken nearly half an hour.

They walked a little while along
the shore, under the canopy of the riverside path. A knoll loomed
above the residential area. The rickshaw stopped peddling, pointing
out the famed Aswaklanta temple. The all dismounted again to take
the steep steps around and up from the base of the knoll. It didn’t
take long to reach the peak. The sight of the Brahmaputra River in
all its power and majesty made Falstaff stop to absorb the view.
Something he rarely could do whilst flying.

In the river floated small
islands and on the other bank Guwahati city pulsed with a life of
their own. The sight was mesmerizing, Falstaff felt the stillness
of the temple, contrasting the rush of water below and commerce of
the city on the Southern bank; another train hooting its whistle in
the distance. A great column of white smoke showed its progress
south while the churning red river raced it onward.

At the peak, the knoll levelled
and a dome-like structure, darkened by time stood tall above all
else.

The rickshaw driver grinned
pointing at the domed structures. The temple was revered by Hindus
he explained. It consisted of two big temples of stone, covered
with figures, eroded by time. He told the myth of the revered
temple, how Lord Krishna had stopped there to rest to his tired
horse while searching for the demon Narakasur.

Falstaff raised an eyebrow.
“Really?” He said as if he did not believe the story. He looked at
Zam. “Remember, Lake Ximah? Another tied horse, or do you think
it’s the same one?”

The rickshaw driver urged them to
hurry down the steps, looking down from the top of the steps on the
knoll they could see why Guwahati was also called the ‘City of
Temples’. The only structures visible in surrounding woodland below
were those with spires and domes. The forest was old and temples
ancient. Across the river, the spires, pagodas and domes dominated
the skyline over the city, reaching up through the smog.

Pausing to buy hot tea and Laru
from a roadside seller, the rickshaw puller pointed out where he
wanted to take them next. The foothills of Mount Kalilash a mile or
so further. In broken English, the rickshaw driver explained that
along the path, up into the mountains, there was a temple dedicated
to the Lord Buddha.

“So long as we are not going up
the mountain?” Falstaff asked. “Can you imagine the tab this guy is
running?”

At the summit of a modest
foothill, below Mount Kalilash they found the small Buddhist
temple. Their guide was breathless and hot from the ride up the
slope. He had peddled all the way, determined to show off his
resilience. Falstaff made a note to tip him generously.

The grounds of the temple were
marked a by pair of weather-worn pillars there was a short flight
of steps. At the top, they found another white-grey stone building
surrounded by trees.

Outside sat a pagoda shaped
incense burner. Trials of pleasant smelling smoke filled the air,
twisting around gently floating upwards, following them up the
steps as they walked up to the top.

The Buddhist temple aspect was
typical, following a style long established. The front ‘mountain
gate’ the entrance part, vestibule with token lattice gates under a
carved wooden arch. The walls of the stone atrium were covered with
carvings showing seated Buddhas on faded lotus thrones. The stone
had long since started to crumble.

The path continued up a set of
deep steps, shaded by trees. A Bell Tower and Drum Tower stood on
each side of the path. Both looked disused, time having eroded the
beam that may have supported a bell. The main hall was preceded by
an entrance, containing sculptures of Four Heavenly Kings standing
on two sides. Falstaff knew his way around the format as if he’d
been there before.

The whole complex was still and
quiet. The guide pointed out the roof of red tiled buildings in the
trees below, where the monks worked, self-sufficient and able to
study or meditate when required.