The Book of Bones (9 page)

“I spik English.”

The girl took her hand away from mine, then raising both hands she clasped my cheeks, forcing me close to her face. Her breath was sour, her eyes poking hot into mine.

“Help me.”

“What is your name?” Rachel asked gently.

The girl had let go of my face and collapsed back into her pillows. Her eyes were filming over again. I took her hand, pressing it, willing her on.

“Please?” Rachel whispered. “Please tell us your name.”

“Yin Hua.”

“Why are you here?”

“I prisoner.” The child turned her ill-matched eyes to Rachel and a hand rose from the bed to graze Rachel's face.

“We mean no harm.”

“Take me away.”

“I will,” Rachel promised. “If …” she relapsed into silence.

What could we do? Rachel's clenched jaw told me she didn't care how powerless we were. The others were sagging, their shoulders slumped. How could we break this child out of her prison? We were prisoners ourselves. Caught in the Bakers' butterfly nets. We could flutter and
struggle—but what had they said? “There is no way out.”

“What is this?” Waldo asked, gesturing to the wires and tubes and machines. “Why are they doing this to you?”

“I see.”

“What do you see?”

“I see the—”

Abruptly, in the middle of her sentence, Yin switched her gaze away from Waldo and looked at the door.

“Go. Fast.”

“Nothing there, Yin,” Waldo said, looking at the closed door. It had an opaque panel at the top through which we could see the water. “Nothing but starshine—no one out there.”

“Go,” she insisted. “Tomorrow come.”

“It's all right,” he soothed.

“GO! GO! GO!” she yelped. The whistle came again from between Yin's lips and the needle began to chitter-chatter on the machine by her side. “Go way.”

“Come on,” said Isaac, sounding frightened.

“NO,” Rachel said. “We stay. We want to help you, Yin. Please be calm.”

Yin wasn't listening. The eerie whistling scream came from her lips, striking dread into my heart. I stood up and began to back toward the door.

“Maybe we should listen to her,” I said.

“No.” Suddenly Yin ceased whistling. “Too Late! Hide!”
She was pointing at the large white cupboard in the corner of the room. “Now.”

“We can't all squeeze in there!” I exclaimed.

“GO!”

As one we dived toward the cupboard, opening the door and herding inside. It made no sense for there was no one about, no one outside as far as we could tell. I wouldn't have obeyed Yin's orders, but there was something so panicked in her voice I felt we had no choice. The cupboard was dusty and uncomfortably full of things we couldn't see in the dark. But we could glimpse through the shutters back into the room. My heart almost stopped as a shadow appeared at the door. It swung open and a man carrying a powerful lamp was silhouetted against the stars.

“I believe I'm becoming sloppy,” he drawled to himself. “I could've sworn I locked the door.”

The well-bred voice belonged to a man wearing a white coat, which he'd hastily thrown over some striped pajamas.

“What seems to be the problem, Yin? You're whistling fit to bring the house down.”

He stepped into the room, haloed by the lamp, and we saw him clearly, a stranger never before glimpsed in all our weeks of tedious voyage. He had blue eyes, sparse blond hair and lips so thin they almost disappeared into
his skin, along with a very weak chin. An Englishman to the core. He was chattering to himself, a sound oddly like that of his dummy-like machine. Yin was slumped back against the pillows, lifeless as a marble statue.

“Naughty girl, waking the doctor in the middle of the night.” He stood by the bed and gently smoothed her hairless scalp. “You know I'm preparing my paper, little Yin. It's hard work, not like lounging about in bed all the time. I'm very angry with you. Better pull your socks up or else we're not going to have much of a show in Shanghai!”

As he talked to himself, he was preparing a syringe, filling it from a bottle he'd pulled out of a bureau. He tested the syringe by squirting some of the white liquid into the air, and then, satisfied, he plunged it into Yin's arm. She moaned but lay still.

“That should keep you quiet for a bit!” the doctor muttered. He picked up the calipers and began to measure Yin's head, kneading and probing. He got out a pen and began to scribble something on her skull. All the while he kept up the steady stream of talk—drivel really.

“You'll do me proud, little Yinny,” he said. “No more nonsense about phrenology being a fake. Cooper will eat his hat and so will Portland. Lord Portland indeed. I'll lord it over him when I'm done. It takes rare skill, it does, a case as complex as this. Perhaps they'll ‘Lord' me. No
more doctor, I'll be Lord Billings of Shanghai, fellow of the Royal College of Science, renowned from the banks of the Thames to the Soochow flats. Ha!”

I had a powerful desire to burst out of the cupboard, to swat the doctor, if that was what he really was, with one of his own machines. Most probably, rather than a real doctor given to the healing of the sick, he was one of those quacks who haunt fairgrounds but are known sometimes to stalk the corridors of universities and hospitals. Still muttering, he opened a notebook and jotted down some of his readings. Flipping it shut, he reached out again and stroked Yin's head, as if smoothing down imaginary hair. It made my flesh crawl. But there was a tenderness in the man's gesture—so would a father pat his daughter's head.

I thought with a sudden pang of my own father, back in Oxford. He must be frantic, poor Father. Had he managed to pick up our trail at all?

We all held our breath, scared to move a muscle though it was hot and cramped in the cupboard. The doctor straightened up and wished Yin goodnight. My heart stopped as he moved toward us. He was going to open the door. But at the last minute he veered off and my breathing returned to normal. His lamp cast a pool of bobbing light as he walked out of the laboratory.

We stumbled out of the cupboard. I took Yin's hand
and tried to wake her. The injection had obviously dulled her for she was frighteningly unresponsive. Though her eyes briefly fluttered open, they quickly closed again. The brief glimpse I'd had of her eyeballs, swimming in a yellowish pus, chilled me.

“We'd better go,” Rachel whispered.

Through the tiny porthole window we could see the sea blushing pink, the first signs of the approaching dawn. The crew would be up and about soon. If we were found here, it would be all the worse for Yin.

The machines were still as we left the girl. No more chattering, no more whining shrill. Only an underlying hum, like the breathing of a great mechanical beast, which I'd not noticed before. I was the last to leave the laboratory and the only one to hear Yin's parting words. I turned round sharply to gaze upon her. But she was still mute and immobile—quite impossible that she'd spoken. Perhaps I had imagined the girl's words. Or perhaps in some fantastical way she was speaking to me direct, thought to thought.

“
I'll meet you in the belly of the dragon
,” said the high voice, echoing in my mind as we tramped the silent steamer back to our cabins. Her words haunted me. Try as I might to unravel their meaning, I could make no sense of them.

“
I'll meet you in the belly of the dragon
.”

From dawn till dusk on the day following our discovery of Yin and the opium, we were kept busy with our Mandarin lessons. I am ashamed to say I was not a good student. Indeed I barely learned a word of that odd language. It was sundown before the four of us found the chance to grab a moment. The sea was choppy, making the
Mandalay
roll and tumble. Her sails had been furled as a precaution against the weather, but the gale still whistled through the rigging. The oily smoke pouring through her red funnels was whipped by the wind into fantastical shapes like ragged washing in the sky. Though we were all seasoned sailors by now, even I felt a little queasy. We talked in hushed, rapid voices, our words half swallowed by the swoosh of the propellers churning below us, making good time toward Shanghai harbor.

“Enough,” hissed Rachel. “We have to take a stand.”

“They'll murder us,” Isaac murmured.

Rachel persisted. “We can't leave Yin to their mercy.”

She was right, of course. We had to do something. But what?

“What's your bright idea then?” Isaac asked in a choking voice. I glanced at him. His face was yellowish and I realized he was very frightened.

“This whole thing stinks,” Rachel said. “It's evil. I want to get out.”

“Jump overboard if you like!” Isaac snapped.

“Oh, keep quiet, Isaac. It's all very well for you geniuses. You live in a fantasy world full of wires and engines. But this isn't about science. It is real life. That poor child is
suffering
.”

“Truce,” I said, walking up to the rail between them. When brother and sister squabbled like this, amazingly enough it was up to me to play peacemaker. “We know the Bakers are evil. The question is what to do about it? We're not free agents, they've snared us in their coils. We've only a couple of cards up our sleeve.”

“Such as?” the others chorused.

“One: the Baker Brothers need us. Without us they can't get this Book of Bones thing.”

“Maybe,” Rachel murmured. “What else?”

“Look! We're nearly at Shanghai—our first chance to escape from these thugs. We need to do something really important before we try to save Yin.”

“What?”

“Find a doctor. We must find medical help in Shanghai or else one of us will die.”

“How will we get away from Lips and his gang?” asked Rachel.

“The hand of God?” I shrugged. “Look here, it is impossible to escape at sea—but once we're on dry land, who knows?”

Through the mist, the boulevards of Shanghai were beckoning us. This city was a legendary blend of East and West and I was desperate to reach it. But we couldn't travel fast up Soochow Creek as we were stuck in a mess of waterborne traffic. What a lot of boats! Dutch traders, Imperial warships, Japanese junks and Chinese sampans. Ships of wood and others of iron, painted and unpainted, bearing scarlet sails or drab white masts. There were even craft decked in gorgeous flowers, like floating roof gardens. Among this motley assortment were the sleek shapes of the opium smugglers—the Fast Crabs and Scrambling Dragons.

The iron flanks of our majestic steamer were pushing aside the wooden junks and sampans. I spied a lorcha with a dragon painted on her bow. Suddenly the boom of our klaxon cut our discussion short. We had finally arrived in Shanghai! Our trunks and valises were already laid out on deck, and as the gangway went down three Chinese porters appeared from nowhere to carry our
loads. I was not surprised to see Mrs. Glee and Lips, the captain, in his full uniform, waiting for us on deck.

“Goodbye,” Mrs. Glee said, extending a hand toward me.

“What do you mean?!” I exclaimed, totally thrown. My friends were equally bewildered. Were we now on our own? Suddenly all my fantasies of escape were pointless.

“Our instructions are to leave you in Shanghai,” Mrs. Glee said. Her eyes rested on me briefly. “Oh … I'm so sorry.”

“Don't be,” I said coldly. “You made your choices.”

“Kit … Waldo … I never meant you any harm.”

“You're soft as a sponge, Vera,” Lips sneered. “They'll be right as rain. Good riddance, say I.” He turned disgustedly away from us and leaning over the rail spat a wodge of chewing tobacco into the sea.

Mrs. Glee was holding something out to me—a leather case. I opened it and saw that it was packed with documents and heavy silver coins.

“What is this?” I asked stupidly.

“Papers you need. Money. Imperial silver taels,” Mrs. Glee answered, not looking me in the eye. “We were told to leave you in Shanghai with plenty of money and, well, you would take care of the rest.”

“But—” Waldo spluttered, indignantly. “The Baker Brothers—”

“I know as little as you do,” she said, though she was still refusing to meet our eyes. “I'm a servant. I do as the Brothers instruct me. I know they've set you a task. ‘Those children will find their way to do it,' they said. ‘They're stubborn little devils.'”

“But where will we stay?” Waldo spluttered. “What are we meant to—”

“I can't help. I really can't … I'm … I'm so—”

“Don't say you're sorry again,” I interrupted. “Hot air doesn't mean a thing.”

Mrs. Glee flashed me a hurt look, but at least it cut off another string of excuses. She turned her back on us and clipped away, her sharp heels clacking down the deck. For a moment I repressed a pang of pity; she looked so frail in her sea green blouse and jade beads. Even her walk was trembling. Then I thrust those feelings away.

“Well—” Waldo whistled—“I expect that's the last we'll see of her.”

“I shan't regret it!” Rachel snapped.

My mind was already on something far more important than Mrs. Glee. “I'll meet you in the belly of the dragon,” Yin had said. China was a huge country; we couldn't scour it looking for dragons' bellies. Where was this odd-sounding place? In Shanghai? Peking? Or the wilds of the countryside?

We had scarcely landed at Shanghai before we were attacked. At least that's what it felt like. “Ouch!” I growled at the coolie in the straw hat who was tugging me away from my friends toward his rickshaw. “I don't need a haircut!”

“Wha?” The coolie grinned.

“That's my hair you're pulling.”