Lost Girls (20 page)

Falling.

Tumbling over and over… jerk to a sudden stop… backpack straps caught on something. I dangle over a dark deep hole… grab at branches, rocks, and lianas to stop myself from falling… but I can’t… it’s no good… I fall out of the straps…. I’m falling into a deep, dark chasm, a rocky ravine… mud paints my clothes red, or is it my own blood? I slither… hit rocks. My shoulder, legs, hands torn… thorns spear my flesh, pain everywhere… I fall faster and faster… and then…

Shadows… sharp stench…
animal… gold… black… black.
Moisture at my lips… long shadows… orange…

Pain… head… arm. Legs, my legs. Green above me… around me. Swinging gently. Black, orange… huge face… gentle golden face. The sweet sour smell of rotting leaves… green, cool, water, animal smell, stench. I vomit. Black…

I’m in a boat, swinging on the small waves, sun then shadow on my face.

An extremely tall, skinny man with a shaved head, wearing faded orange robes, sits nearby. At his feet lies a tiger. The skinny giant smiles at me, a gentle smile. He pours warm liquid into my mouth, holding a cloth under my chin to catch the drips.

I am in a hammock strung between tree trunks. Looking up into the green canopy of trees, I strain to remember my dream.

“Where am I?” I can’t believe I said that. I look around. I put my hands to my head and find a cloth wrapped around it. The cuts and scratches on my arms and legs have strange green stuff stuck to them and are bandaged with strips of leaves. It smells of fungus and ferns. I drift away… water on my lips.

There is a roof of woven leaves above me, and the smell of charcoal burning, and incense. A spirit house in the form of a miniature temple on bamboo stilts is bedecked with flowers and fruit. There’s a sweet smell of jasmine and another strong, pungent reek of wild animal.

I’m not dreaming. As my sight clears I see the tiger rolling on its back like a ginger tabby. The monk unfurls his long snakelike body; he reminds me of Popeye’s girlfriend, Olive Oyl, and brings me a drink of hot water,
with something extra in it—lime juice and coconut milk, I think. It’s heavenly. He has a huge head, the monk, misshapen, and his face is sort of twisted, so his fleshy mouth is on one half and his blunt nose and almond eyes on the other. But his gummy smile is friendly. He wears a tiger’s claw on a piece of twine around his neck; one shoulder is bare, and his orange robe is ragged.

“
Khawp khun,
” I say.
Thank you.
I try to get out of the hammock, but I cannot stand without feeling dizzy. My left leg hurts. He holds me steady until my head clears.

“Khun phuut phasaa angrit?” Do you speak English?
I have to strain my neck like a baby bird to look up at his face.

He says nothing, shaking his head, and opens his drooling mouth, pointing inside. He seems to have no tongue or teeth.

The tiger pushes itself up onto its legs and comes toward us. I freeze. The great beast comes to my side and rubs itself against my legs, nearly pushing me over, and then ambles away. The monk laughs and strokes the tiger’s head. I swear it’s purring.

My head feels awful and my brain is reeling. The monk, who must be seven feet tall, though he is so skinny his bones jut from his flesh, takes my hand and leads me to the tiger’s side. Squatting, he indicates that I should sit, too, and stroke the massive beast. The fur is hot; the panting flanks are real, not imaginary. This big cat is tame.
We haven’t been attacked because she isn’t afraid of people. She hasn’t been hunted. She only knows this gentle giant. This is some sort of Eden. I stay, whispering to the tiger, for a long time. She seems curious about me, nosing my hands and snuffing at me like a big dog. She sneezes. The monk is very amused. Who is he? How did he come to be here? I am dizzy, so I get back into the hammock. I watch the monk as he lifts something that has been cooked on a rack surrounded by hot stones and buried in an oven not unlike the charcoal burner in our compound. It’s a sweet-smelling root, and it’s delicious, like sugar, carrot, and potato all in one. He passes me a sweet drink, which I think of as tiger’s milk, but of course it can’t be.

I drift into semiconsciousness, waking myself with sudden shouts. He presses more of the fruity drink to my lips. I am feverish, but aware always of the monk’s quiet presence, his long fingers on my burning forehead, the dressings on my cuts being changed. The tiger lies panting in the shade, long whiskers twitching, tongue lolling… curved yellow fangs.

My mother and father run toward me; flames engulf them.

I no longer know what is real, what is unreal. Is the tiger really licking my hand? I smell fur, like burnt toffee.

I wake to darkness, but the monk is there still, smiling his crooked smile. I have no idea how long I have been here, but at least my injuries are not terrible: no broken bones, though I hurt all over.

A huge tusked boar is charging at me, but my legs won’t move. It screams, or I do.

My full bladder wakes me. I keep saying “pee-pee, pee-pee,” and he seems to understand, smiling widely and nodding. He helps me to my feet, takes me to a perfectly decent latrine at the edge of his camp, and turns his back. I crouch and relieve myself, and then he takes me back to my swinging bed. Have I taken his bed from him? Where is he sleeping? I could sleep forever.

Explosions, flames, the stench of burning oil. A tree falling toward me. I am paralyzed. A cock crows.

My backpack is by my side. How did it get there? I thought I’d lost it forever, stuck on a branch in a crevice.

Today—whatever day it might be—I feel a little better. I’m still shaky and weak, but the hammer in my head has stopped, and I am actually hungry. When the gentle monk accompanies me to the latrine I can walk without his help. Well, nearly.

The tiger comes and goes silently. Sometimes her cheeks and throat are bloody. She spends ages cleaning herself, just like a domestic cat: long, rasping tongue; yellow fangs. She lies on her back, her nipples pink in the honey-colored fur. The monk has a small woven-bamboo-fenced yard with three black hens and a fine cockerel, whose red comb quivers and shakes as he struts.

I am being fattened with eggs. They taste like nectar. No more fever. My leg injury still weeps with yellow pus, but the swelling is going. The man who saved my life dresses the various cuts all over me with a mess of chewed leaves wrapped with whole leaves and tied with shredded bark.