The Call of the Thunder Dragon (57 page)

She climbed out of the bow under
the console into the cockpit. Then crawled into the gap behind so
she could pull him upright. “John! Wake up!”

“Did you call for a cab, we’ll
get back before curfew!” Falstaff raised his head bewildered as if
awaking from a dream he looked at Zam. “Ah! Princess Karma? Did you
have a reservation? I am afraid you can’t come into the cockpit
madam! It’s against Imperial Airways regulations!”

“John, wake up you fool!” Zam
shook him desperately.

Falstaff’s hand, frozen on to the
controls came loose. He fell forward. The Caproni plunged with a
heave.

“John, wake up!” Zam’s heart
stopped. She’d never felt so alone, suddenly she felt so cold
inside, but not from the tearing wind, she was gripped by fear. Her
heart pounded, but she felt light headed. Her eye lips drooped,
they felt so heavy.

“No, I must stay awake! John! You
can see can’t you?” She slapped at Falstaff’s muffled face, rubbing
his cheeks she adjusted his goggles. “Come on John you can see
can’t you?”

“Yes, yes I can… I’m okay. I'm
all right, God it's cold!” He slurred.

Zam fumbled under the console.
Finding the flask of water waiting to go into then hot water
bottles. Falstaff drank two cups, then seemed to jump up in his
seat.

“God that’s better. Get those hot
water bottles filled and keep them coming!” Falstaff shrugged his
shoulders and shook himself repeatedly.

“Ok, back down to Ten thousand
feet, crap!” Falstaff shouted. “Heading, west.”

The rudder pedal jammed and
juddered. He pushed it slowly back one way, then the other. Ice
fell out from the gaps around the tail fins as the rudder flexed.
Ice on the wings slid off as Falstaff pulled back on the yoke. He
checked their heading, then started climbing looking for the top of
the clouds.

Jorhat, Thengal Manor House

Donald tipped his hat in thanks
to the Japanese dentist as he made his way past him up the stairs.
He’d been surprised what friendly and attentive company the little
Japanese man had made.

He turned to the desk, placed his
case down, along with his cane.

“Good morning, I hope if it’s not
too much trouble that I can have a room.” He smiled at the Hindi
clerk.

“Certainly sir, how long are you
staying, sir?”

“I’m not sure, in fact, you might
be able to help. I wonder if you can tell me where I can get my
hands on a chap called Falstaff?”

“Don’t we all my dear?” A woman’s
voice whispered huskily in his ear.

Taken by surprise by the
appearance of the woman at his side, Donald turned in surprise.

She brushed her fringe aside.
Lowering her chin, she cocked an eyebrow at him. Leaning in closer,
she put her hand on his shoulder. “Mrs Anderson, you can call me
Penny, bad penny!”

Donald licked his lips.
Struggling to swallow the lump which had come to his throat.
“Penny, you say! Ah, Mrs Penderson? Mrs Anderson, I say, er, a bad
Penny?” He stuttered.

“You’re looking for Falstaff?”
She smiled. Licked her lips. Then spoke again even more dryly.
“Come, have breakfast with me, darling! My husband doesn’t do
breakfast, says he gets indigestion. I think it’s just an excuse
for getting away from me, he doesn’t like it when I interrupt his
reading the papers?”

“Well, there is a lot in the news
at the moment, I wouldn’t mind getting my hands on a paper?”

“Later darling, later...” Mrs
Anderson took the key proffered by the clerk. “Here… you’re in room
42! That’s right over mine! Now, are you coming for breakfast or
not?”

Donald rubbed his chin. “I am
famished as a matter of fact, been on trains for two days or more
now! I say, just a moment, I need to make a phone call first.” He
felt rude to refuse the woman but shuddered at her forwardness.
Dreading hearing whatever her story about Falstaff was.

The clerk rang the number through
to the police headquarters, then was forwarded to the magistrate’s
house.

Donald walked away, pale-faced,
rubbing his chin thoughtfully. The prisoner-assassin had escaped
yesterday, that morning the magistrate had been found strung up by
his toes and shot through the heart and head. The sword, which had
belonged to the assassin, was gone. The police had briefly told him
the details over the phone how Falstaff had caught the killer,
believed to be Japanese. Donald paused before retreating into the
dining room.

“I need to put a call through to
Rangoon if you could get a line for me after breakfast?”

“Certainly, sir.” The clerk
nodded at the desk.

Donald took a deep breath. He
went, holding his chest out, to join Mrs. Anderson for breakfast
and to hear, no doubt, more about Falstaff’s transgressions. As
long as he’d know him Falstaff had been an unscrupulous, cheap,
mercenary, womanizer. Lord only knew what Mrs. Anderson was like if
she was the type to associate with the rogue.

“Do you want to know what’s been
happening?” Mrs. Anderson started. “I think it’s all too
thrilling,” She gushed. “And it’s all so spiced with so much
naughtiness!”

Donald sat down. Daring to ignore
Mrs. Anderson a moment as he picked up the paper lying on the
table. The Spectator for 5th January, full of Japanese indignation
at the removal of twenty-one Germans of military age from the liner
Asama Maru and the expected Royal Proclamation for service to all
men over 19 and under 28 to be called up for action.

“There’s plenty of action hotting
up at home, have you seen this headline? It is time to think what
to do about this war and if we are going to see any action or not?”
Donald piped up from behind the paper.

Mrs. Anderson noted Donald’s
viewpoint, with nose in the paper. “Then I suppose there’ll be no
action hotting here then? And going back to Richmond won’t be much
fun either with all those fit, able bodied men being called
away!”

Falstaff watched the approaching
black peak through thickening wisps of cloud, summit pointed up
like an innocuous little island out of the choking grey cloud. They
cleared the first peak with only two hundred feet to spare.

Zam brought out a change of hot
water bottles. Giving Falstaff the first two, helping him with
stiff froze woollen overcoat, stuffing them down the neck of the
leather jacket.

“Okay, you rest!” Falstaff
called. “Thank you. I think I love you!” He grinned his teeth
chattering together.

“Seh lang, dirty pervert!” Zam
called back with a smile, she lay back her head resting against a
rolled fur, gnawing at a piece of Jaggery sugar cake. “Lord it is
cold!” she shivered, even out of the wind it made no difference.
She wriggled forward and pushed herself up against the viewing
ports. There was nothing but cloud to see and mist twisting in the
chilly air.

Falstaff watched the altimeter,
checking against the clock. They’d climbed three and a half
thousand feet in twenty minutes, much slower than normal.

Falstaff faced a choice, go on or
turn back. Timidity was never his thing once he started he rarely
gave up on anything. Turn back or continue climbing, hoping that
the wind would reduce. Hoping they would stay above the clouds if
only to avoid the high peaks that lay in their path.

Falstaff pushed the throttles as
far as he dared, the engine’s tone took on a jarring note. The
Black Mountain still seemed to out of reach, their progress forward
seemed tediously slow. The wires bracing the landing gear and wings
grew steadily thicker with layers of ice forming of the frost.

Colonel Haga-Jin grimaced, his
patience wearing thin, he could do nothing but grin and bear the
delay and consternation caused by their guide. It was made worse,
Haga-Jin thought by his continual excuses and fawning smiles.

The face of the short bow legged
mountain man was nearly orange; coloured by the sun and continually
cold wind. A smile constantly split his face, deeply wrinkled with
age and toughed by exposure.

Haga-Jin recoiled from his
forwardness. The guide would pat his hand or take his arm when he
spoke to him, instead of bowing. He came too close instead of
keeping his distance. It was an affront to Japanese superiority.
Why could they not show the proper manners? They should know what
will happen if proper decorum was not shown to Japanese visitors?
The Colonel had twice told the fool to speak to Soujiro or Keiko,
the co-pilot, instead but he insisted on leading the Colonel’s
horse.

Their choice of guide had been
made in a rush, forced on them by the proximity of the man after
their landing. The sight of the aircraft coming through the valley
had roused the villagers from their homes. A number of them had
rushed forward to greet them when they emerged on the river bank
after landing. Aircraft were not unknown, but most had never seen
or heard of one landing.

Captain Soujiro had discovered
the guide did not speak Chinese well enough to understand them. It
seemed to Soujiro that he had twice gone out of his way to lead
them to the wrong place. Fortuitously the second place had been a
small monastic retreat where a monk lived. He did speak Chinese and
Dzongkha, the language of Bhutan. All the while the Colonel,
Captain Soujiro and the troopers had trailed along on small, but
sturdy horses.

The Monk translated their
questions. Then leisurely turned to lead them, heading towards the
next ridge. Towards the old fort, of Lang Druk. Which the monk
pointed out by the side of Sand Ox Lake. He led them slowly and
deliberately down a narrow well-worn path towards the lake. After
what seemed an age to Haga-Jin, the monk raised his hand to bring
the procession to a halt.

The Colonel dismounted. First
adjusted his uniform and sword. His family heirloom, a katana made
by Ippei Yasuyo, maker of the Shogun’s personal weapons. Nearly two
hundred years old, the blade had been mounted with a new handle and
fitted with a robust military scabbard more suited to
nineteenth-century military work. Many Japanese soldiers took their
family swords to battle with them, in the same way, the samurai of
the Shogun did hundreds of years before. If a soldier did not have
a family sword, the government would provide him with a machine
made sword.

Carried at his side, Haga-Jin’s
family sword was considered to be of far better quality than the
new machine made swords. With it, he carried his family’s pride and
honour. His family was one of those samurai families who could
trace their service back to the Shogun. He was a military man, from
a military family. His sword had seen action at the Battle of
Toba-Fushim
⁶²
on the side of the
Shogun. It was Haga-Jin’s pride that his generation of military men
were restoring the balance of power back to the military minds.

“I take it this...
house
is the fort referred to?” Haga-Jin pointed towards the Lang
fort.

The house or fort was two stories
high, surrounded on three sides by a low crumbling wall. The gate
posts stood like towers no longer supporting what would have been
massive doors. Behind the fort was a dense forest, out of which
rose a sheer cliff wall. At the front corner of the fort was a
seven-story tower, overlooking the blue lake below.

Colonel Haga-Jin regarded the
buildings with distaste. His eye used to the uniform structure of
the Japanese castles. Neatly made of black and white timber and
tiles.

The hillside fort’s construction
varied from the grey rock of the foundation, through bronze colored
brickwork, brightly painted window frames, painted and carved
corbels rising up to the interlocking wooden beams. The roof was
massively constructed of hardwood and bamboo. Highly decorated
along the edge of the eaves. The heavy timber construction was
completed without the use of nails. The eaves were open providing a
ventilated gallery. Wooden shingles weighted down by stones dotted
the roof with black spots. Everywhere faded yellow and orange flags
fluttered along the eaves or down lines to the outer walls on all
sides, just as prayer flags flew atop mountain ridges and all
around buildings and at every crossroad. The colored flags were
used to bless the surrounding countryside.

Colonel Haga-Jin seeing the
fortified manor, militarily he couldn’t see the value, especially
as the outer walls had crumbled. The guide elaborated telling him
that the forts may have been built by inspiring legends such as the
great demon-quelling King Gesar or in places left by the demons
themselves.

“The local beliefs do not concern
me! It is not important! So long as we can catch Falstaff here it
is of no matter!” Haga-Jin cursed.

“The radio message this morning
from Guwahati gives me confidence, Colonel-Sama. Falstaff is on his
way!” Captain Soujiro reassured him.

“Then let us not remain on this
meandering path any longer!” The Colonel started to turn away.

“The guide warned me, although
this Lord may only be so due to his ancestry and no longer part of
the country’s administration, but he is a frightful and terrible
man?” Captain Soujiro spoke into the wind struggling to be
heard.

“You speak as if you believe
that? That is not like you Soujiro-San, you cannot be afraid!”
Haga-Jin snapped. He needed the support of his men now. He was so
close to finishing the matter for good. He was shaking with
anticipation, his nerves on edge.

“The guide told me not to be
afraid of Lord Lang Druk. He is a big man, heavier than all the men
in the village together!” Soujiro said. “He told me not to look
upon Lang Druk with fear!”

Haga-Jin snatched the Captain’s
arm and squeezed it shaking hard.

“Are you afraid Captain? We are
here to protect my honour, the honour of Japan. For the Emperor
himself! I have had an audience with the Emperor! Do you think I
should cast my eyes down at the sight of some petty little mountain
recluse who thinks his name makes him kazoku?
⁶³
”