The Mark of the Golden Dragon (6 page)

"Ravi," I say, panting, my mind still in tatters. "Get up on my back and we shall wade up the shore till we are far away from here." He does it, and keeping out to my neck level makes it easy for me to bear his light weight as we slog our way north.

"Must be old tiger, Memsahib," says Ravi from his perch. "Else we now be with Brahma, enjoying eternal bliss."

I just grunt and slog on.
Eternal bliss, indeed ... I'd settle for some temporary bliss.

We emerge from the water still some distance from the village. It has been agreed that Ravi will venture into the town to find out what he can about the local lingo, the lay of the land, just exactly where we are, and our prospects, if any, for making some money. Meanwhile, I will hang back and hide, for I fear my appearance would seem rather bizarre to the local populace—blond hair, half-bald, with braided pigtail, to say nothing of my light skin.

As his white-clad bottom is scurrying off in the direction of the village, I climb a large, smooth-skinned tree, seat myself in a comfortable crotch, and settle back against the trunk to watch what is happening in the town.

Ravi has told me that he can speak Urdu and Hindi as well as English—sort of—having been taught my mother tongue by his late mother's employer, an Englishman known to Ravi simply as Sahib Elphy. The once wealthy man had a large household of Indian servants in Bombay, but when he had fallen on hard times, Ravi was kicked out into the mean streets. I certainly can relate to that, having been booted out into the equally tough streets of London as a young child, after the deaths of my mother, father, and younger sister. It still hurts me to think back on That Dark Day, and I am sure Ravi has similar feelings about his own loss.
Ah, well...

The fishing boats that we had spotted pulled up on this shore earlier are now all gone. I guess the fishermen are out on the briney to cast their nets and tend their lines and earn their daily bread, as it were.

I settle in, feeling lazy in the sun, and snooze a bit, not having had much rest last night due to the presence of various striped beasts. I drift in and out ... as I dream...

...and I dream that I am back in London and there I am at Saint Paul's. And once again I am small and dressed in rags and there is a great sounding of bells and trumpets, and white doves fly about as a grand wedding procession comes pouring out of the great cathedral. And there's Jaimy—oh Jaimy, yes!—at the head of it. And there's flowers all around and on his arm is his new bride and she is blond and I see her face and it glows with happiness ... But ... but she is not me ... It is Clementine Jukes's face that I see, and I start to cry and tears run down my face and Rooster Charlie is suddenly at my side. He puts his hand on my shoulder and says, "Let him go, Mary, you've got to let him go ... because you know you are dead now ... to him you are dead and gone. Me and you now, Mary, just me and you here in the shadow land, me and you..." Then Clementine's face turns toward me and she smiles as she says, "I've got my darlin boy now just like God sent him to me, and you cain't take him back, Jacky, no you cain't." And then her face turns away and when she looks at me again, her face is now that of Clarissa Worthington Howe, who winks and gives me a little finger wave and says, "Ah do believe we are even now, Jacky, you dear little thang: Jaimy for Randall,
Randall for Jaimy, fair trade, I say..." And I scream, "No, no, no! Not Clarissa! No, no, not that! Anybody but Clarissa! No, no, noooooooo...
"

"Memsahib having bad dream?"

I pop open an eye and Clarissa and Jaimy and the crowd at Saint Paul's fade away into the mists of my mind as I see Ravi standing beside me, his toes hooked on a branch, looking concerned.

"I have had better dreams, boy," I say, shaking the nightmare out of my head and sitting up all groggy. "What's going on in that town? What did you learn?"

"We are in Burma, Missy. Bottom part. Big cities up north but many rivers for us to cross to get there. They do not know names. They are very simple people. One city that they do know is called Rangoon."

"Um. You could speak to them? And they understood you?"

"Mostly yes, Memsahib. Urdu works in many places."

When we were back in Bombay, Higgins had done some research, as he always does when I'm off being an irresponsible gadabout, and he informed me later that Urdu was actually a combination of Hindi and other local dialects, including some English, cobbled together by the many traders who plied the Bay of Bengal, which is what that water out there is. And so Urdu was in use in several countries that bordered the Bay, this Burma apparently being one of them, which is all that counts now.

"Who talked to you?"

"Beggar children. They were much amazed by me and most friendly."

Ah, the universal tribe of Urchindom, of which I am proud to be a charter member in good standing.

"What else?" I ask, stretching and looking out through the leafy branches of my tree. I see that the fishing fleet is returning to shore.
Hmmm
...Nice looking boats, all brightly painted with neatly trimmed triangular sails. If they were on the north coast of Africa, they would be called dhows. What they are called here, I do not know, but that is not important. All that is important is that they are seaworthy, and they look to be that.

"Village is all fisher folk," he goes on. "And there is much unhappiness."

"Why's that?"

The men of the boats have pulled their nets out and are drying them on racks set up by the shore. One man—a very large man with a huge black mustache—is yelling at them as they do it. Another man is gathering up the catches from all the boats and placing them at the feet of the yelling man. The backs of the other fishermen are bowed, and I am close enough to see that their faces are resigned and without expression.

"Much sadness. Three peoples of village killed by tigers in past few days. One child..."

I look over at the woods and know I ain't goin' there no more. So sad for those poor people ... I know their end must have been terrible.

I see that the men have not pulled their boats far up on the beach.
Hmmm...
The tide must be going out, and they do not want to strand their boats too high up on the shore. The boats, though small, would still be a hard push to get them back into the surf when next they have to go out.

"And trouble of other kind, too," he says, following my gaze to the crowd of fishermen on the shore. "A
badmash
has come to the town. Big strong man. The old headman died and this one took his place. He beats upon the fishermen and takes half of each man's daily catch. Takes their young sons ... and daughters, too ... Much shame in village."

"Hmmm ... That would be him, then, the
badmash
?" I ask, pointing out through the leaves at the big man. I don't have to ask what the word means.

"Yes, Missy, I think so."

"Does no one in the village stand up to him?"

"No, Missy. He is too big, and he has mighty weapons—great curving swords. He arms his followers with them and the people are afraid."

"Hmmm ..."

"There is one, though—a young man who was to wed a girl, a beautiful girl, and he was most happy. But the badmash find out and say no,
he
would take the girl instead. The young man stood up against him and was beaten most harshly."

"Hmmm..." I muse, looking out at the fishermen stowing their gear. "Come, let us get closer, but let us not be seen."

We climb down from our perch, sling the packs on our backs, and make our way down the beach toward the landing spot. Before we get there, I push Ravi back into the woods and we duck down and crawl on our bellies to the edge of the brush. Leafy branches low over our heads hide us as we peer out.

That's the badmash, all right. He is free with his kicks and blows from his fists, and a large sword hangs by his side. It is plain that he has his toadies, too. Badmashes of whatever race and place always do. They grin as they carry off their master's stolen catch for sale up in the village. Poor fishermen, forced to buy their own catch with whatever meager goods they've got.

Grrrrrrr...

"There, Memsahib," says Ravi, pointing. "That must be the brave young man."

I follow his point and agree. He has a bandage around his head and many bruises on his face and neck and upper body. He stows his nets, his battered face impassive, showing no emotion ... But I sense something seething within him, yes...

The fishermen, having put up their boats, begin to leave, trudging back to their village.

"Ravi," I whisper. "Follow that man and see if you can set up a meeting with me later tonight. Tell him I am from another land and have come to free him and his people from the badmash but will need his help to do it. Be careful, now. You can't be seen by the bad man's toadies."

"Do not worry, Missy. Ravi very good at being small and beneath notice of peoples," he says. "But what if young man is fearful of meeting with Memsahib?"

"Just ask him how much he loves his girl."

Ravi nods, and with a rustle of leaves, heads off on his mission.

I roll over and go back to watching the beach and the men upon it. Many are walking away, leaving only the bully headman and a few of his minions. Soon those toadies are gone as well—probably to go up into the village to spread terror and discord—leaving the badmash alone by his own boat, which is painted a very rich yellow. I reflect that I have always been partial to that color.

The evil man puts his fists to his hips and looks about him, gloating with great satisfaction.

Yes, badmash, you are king of your world, that's for sure—for now, anyway...

We crawl as silently as we can under the bushes near the hut that sits at the edge of the village. Ravi gives a low birdcall in his throat and it is immediately answered by the appearance of a shadowy slender form that beckons us to hastily enter his dwelling.

We do it and are soon inside, unobserved by any evil forces, we hope.

It is a round dwelling with a small fire in the center of the floor and a hole in the ceiling to act as chimney. An older woman, wrapped in once colorful rags, works at a mortar and pestle, grinding grain, of what sort, I do not know, but whatever she is cooking smells awful good. A little girl sits by her side, her big black eyes looking at us in wonder.

I enter with a length of sailcloth wrapped around my head, so as not to startle anyone right off, and sit down next to the fire. Ravi alights by my side, ready to act as translator.

The young man who had guided us in does not sit but merely crouches across from us, his gaze level and directed at me.

I pull off my headscarf and meet his gaze.

"I am Ju kau-jing yi, beloved of the great Cheng Shih," I say, in case the latter name has any import in this area. "Who are you?"

He is plainly startled by my announcement and my appearance but does not seem overly cowed and I find that good.

"My name is Arun," he says with a slight bow of his head.

"I am pleased to meet you, Arun," I say with a bow of my own head. "Thank you for receiving me so graciously into your home."

"What I have is yours," he says, gesturing to the meager contents of the rude hut. He is plainly still guardedly feeling me and my intentions out.

"My thanks, Arun," I say, my head still down. "And what this unworthy one has is yours ... but you can see that what I have is nothing..."

Then I lift my eyes and go on. "But I may still be of some use to you."

"Ah. And how is that, strange girl?"

"I have heard that you were to marry a girl of this village, and that she is young and shy and fair of face and beloved of you and beloved by you in return," I say, cutting right to the chase. "What is her name, if this stranger girl may be so bold to ask?"

His face darkens.

"Her name is Sanda."

"And..."

"And the headman Ohnmar will take her for his own."

"When will that happen?"

"The day after tomorrow."

I can see his fists clench and unclench over and over again in the semidarkness of the hut.

"And you will do nothing about it?"

"Do? What should I do?" he asks, his voice a strangled hiss. "I would kill him if I could, but I cannot! He is just too strong! Run away? Yes, Sanda has agreed to run with me into the jungle and hide in the bush and sleep wrapped in each other's arms, but there are tigers there. How could I protect her from them? How could I provide for her in the woods? I am a fisherman, not a woodsman. How could I—"

There is a murmur from the old woman and Arun says, plainly embarrassed, "Pardon me, Ju kau-jing yi. My mother informs me I am without manners and am being rude to a guest and she is right. Please forgive me and eat."

The woman places a single bowl before us and we each dip in our fingertips and scoop out some of the food. I bring it to my mouth and find it simple but good.
Ummm.
A mixture of grain and fish and spices gathered from the forest around us. It would probably be a lot richer if the badmash Ohnmar and his crew weren't taking their cut of the catch.