The Red Thread (28 page)

William Gold scowled at Zhen and waited until Charlotte had settled. She sat at a distance from Zhen this time, next to
the jemadar
, as they proceeded into town. When they arrived at the outskirts of the settlement, Zhen sprang from the carriage and, without a word, disappeared around Bukit Larangan.

Charlotte watched him go discreetly, her face half-buried in his jacket. William Gold was looking at her intently, and she decided she did not like the lieutenant half as much as she had thought.

28

It was Robert's worst nightmare. Over the next three days, wounded and exhausted men poured into the town and made for the Catholic chapel. Stories of bloody murder, looting and burning abounded. The schoolhouse took the worst cases; men were in the chapel and spread out around the garden. Father Baudrel kept a night vigil and prayers were said constantly.

Robert had been to see the governor, but Bonham had not been convinced of the seriousness of the matter. Colonel Murchison would not hear of involving the army: this was a civilian matter. The colonel was a staunch Protestant and did not approve of popish ways, in any case.

Not until six of Robert's Malay policemen died in an ambush did the governor consider the matter with gravity. Within a week hundreds of coolies had come in from the interior. Carroll, the Canadian huntsman, had become a common sight, helping groups to get to the town, telling Robert of farmers murdered, their farms destroyed.

Coleman came to see him. He had given Robert a hundred of his Indian convicts, and the casualties amongst these gallant men had been too high. He would put no more of them in danger. ‘Get in the army!' he demanded. Colonel Murchison, however, would not hear of it, and he and Coleman exchanged angry words.

Robert had been to see the Chen Long, who had received him affably and assured him that this was all the work of ruffians and thieves, elements over whom he had no authority. There was little he could do. The trouble was that many people in the Chinese community did not like these Christians and the meddlesome priests who interfered in the time-honoured traditions of China. Robert was as certain as he could be that this elegant and smooth-talking man was behind the attacks, but without proof there was nothing he could do.

Chen Long had called Zhen to give him an account. Zhen had simply told him that the woman was the sister of the police chief and his teacher of English. He had felt it unwise for her to be abused or killed, for that would surely bring about the involvement of the military. As for Father Lee, he had had no control over his rescue with the police chief present. Chen Long had agreed. It was a great pity about the padre, for he was influential with these stupid coolies. The white woman, though. Yes, it was right she should not die, for there would be too much trouble. The government here did nothing so long as trade continued and white men were left untouched.

Robert went to see Charlotte, who looked much better. She had taken a long bath in one of Takouhi's luxurious bathrooms, her Javanese maids gently washing her hair and skin of the detritus and dust of the jungle and the hands and tongues of the foul-smelling men. Dr Montgomerie had bound her cuts and pronounced her well enough. She had slept for almost two whole days. The da Silva girls, Mrs Keaseberry, Miss Aratoun and most of her acquaintance had called and expressed their horror and sympathy. Isobel and Isabel were dying to ask for details but felt restrained by Charlotte Keaseberry's countenance. Takouhi, to set aside any indelicate questions, had assured them later that Charlotte was ‘all right'. The men had been interrupted before any truly grave violation could take place. The da Silva twins were vaguely disappointed, but still longed to hear the whole story.

Robert told his sister of the attacks, the numbers of wounded and dying men turning up every day. After he left, Charlotte walked the short distance from Tir Uaidhne to the chapel. She was aghast at the site. Ashen-faced and listless bodies lay over seemingly every inch of the gardens. Hacked and bloody men lay dying in the schoolhouse. Father Baudrel was administering the last rites to one expiring soul. She could hear him intoning the words, see him kissing the cross. The scene at the poor boy's graveside in the jungle came fresh to her mind.

The smell of blood and gore in the heat was overpowering, and she left the room, seeking the fresher air outside. The army had supplied some tents, and these were raised at one corner of the garden. Charlotte could see Evangeline ministering to a group of women.

She was surprised. She had not thought there were any women in the interior. Going up to Evangeline, she kissed her friend and made enquiries. These were slave women, Evangeline explained. The poor things were sold to be whores. Evangeline had tears in her eyes. The evil that men do. But they are safe now; they will come to Christ and be saved in his infinite mercy.
Dieu soit loué
. The women eyed these white women curiously and gulped down the water Evangeline was distributing.

From then on, Charlotte went every day to help Evangeline in treating the wounded and preparing the ever-increasing quantities of food needed to feed them. Mrs Keaseberry and Mrs van Heyde, Miss Aratoun, the twins and many other ladies of the town also volunteered their help, though, Charlotte thought, many of them came merely to gossip and served little purpose. Baba Tan and the other merchants donated sacks of rice, pork and chests of tea. Mrs Shastri gave vegetables, and the Arab merchants had brought cloth for clothes and bandages. Hajie Fatimah came personally to distribute to Father Baudrel the alms that the Muslim community had collected. Dr Oxford and Dr Montgomerie, Charlotte could see, were exhausted. Convicts from the gaol were sent over to help with the cooking and nursing and to stand guard around the walls of the chapel.

In all of this collective concern, Charlotte noted the conspicuous absence of the army, who seemed to stand aloof from this human tragedy. Coleman was most vocal in his criticism. To have left a peaceful and industrious people to cope with such a monstrous event was beyond everything. The police were outnumbered, and the convicts could not be expected to give their lives. He wrote a long editorial in the newspaper. Charlotte had moved back to the police bungalow, and when Lieutenant Gold called to see her, she, too, was quick to tell him what she thought of the whole affair, and he, at least, had the good grace to look somewhat shame-faced.

On Sundays Father Baudrel held an outdoor mass. On one occasion Charlotte was sitting at the back of the garden listening to the hymns when she saw Qian over the low wall. He came up to her.

‘Herro, Miss Xia Lou. Want see you well. You well?'

Charlotte nodded. Her mind had turned to Zhen as soon as she had seen his friend.

‘I got message. Zhen say prease meet talk him.'

‘Yes.' Charlotte's response was instant. ‘Where? Qian, now?'

He nodded. She ran to get her hat and joined him. He led her along to the stream by the Chinese paupers' hospital and crossed the bridge. She followed him along the road to Government House. Within a minute, however, he branched off on a broken pathway which led around the base of the hill. They arrived at an old orchard long since abandoned, full of gnarled tree trunks and twisted branches standing like ancient sentinels. Beneath an ancient nutmeg tree, on a stone bench, sat Zhen. He rose as she approached him. As ever, her pulse quickened when she saw him, but since he had saved her she felt much easier in his company.

He took her hands silently in his and gently kissed each white-bandaged wrist. He was apologising for her pain at the hands of his compatriots.

‘No, no,' she said. ‘Not your fault. You saved me. Thank you.'

She realised he might not understand what she was saying, so she called Qian, who had been standing awkwardly a little distance away, and explained that he would need to help her translate.

Yes, if Zhen agreed.

Zhen made a gesture with his hand and sat on the bench. Charlotte sat next to him. He began to tell her about his love for her. Qian knew the word ‘love'. He had looked it up in the dictionary Father Lee had given him, right after the word for ‘sex', but that he had not yet found.

Love! Charlotte looked at him. He loved her. Why, yes, of course he loved her, and she loved him. That was what this was. Not a game or some idle curiosity. How simple it all was.

She watched his mouth move as he made the Chinese sounds. She liked the staccato tones of his language and the way it seemed to rise and fall like the undulations of some hilly countryside. His voice was deep and resonant. Putting out a finger, she could not resist touching his full lips. So luscious, she thought. He took her hand in his.

‘Marry,' she heard the word. Marriage, marriage. Whose marriage? Ours? Mine, his? What on earth! She looked up at Qian. Zhen had stopped speaking.

‘Zhen must marry daughter Baba Tan. Cannot choose. Must marry on twelve day of eleven moon.'

Qian searched his mind and mopped his brow. A little tic started by his left eye. ‘December. Zhen must marry.'

Charlotte pulled her hand out of Zhen's. He was getting married? Of course he was. They have arranged marriages just as we do. Why is he telling me this? What does he expect me to say, to do? She looked around the garden. Time seemed to have lost its cadence, and she could see the leaves of the trees, yellowing and wrinkled, fall through the air with infinite slowness, drifting down on the eddies of the invisible breeze. Through a distance she heard him say her name.

Zhen could see the distress on her face, her eyes open wide in shock. A ripple of pain rose in his chest. He had hurt her. Putting out a finger, he turned her face to his.

Charlotte pulled her head back and looked at him accusingly. ‘Why, why tell me this? Why?'

Qian could not think straight. A phrase recently learned from Matteo popped into his head. ‘Honesty is best policy.'

Charlotte gave a small, slightly hysterical laugh. The ludicrous incongruity of this homily at this moment brought her to her senses. What was she doing with these crazy men in this place?

She stood up to leave. Zhen was alarmed. She could not go, not like this. Not angry, not hating him. In Chinese he could have wooed her, giving this love, this passion for her, poetry and depth. In her language they could not find the words to say this right. It was all coming out tawdry and foolish. The time for words was over.

Zhen took her arm and turned her to face him. ‘Not love marry woman. Love Xia Lou. Love you.'

He bent and moved his face closer to hers. ‘Love you,' he said fiercely, taking her waist in his hand and pulling her gently against him. She felt his other hand move to her back, his fingers in her hair, on her neck and then her face was against his and he was kissing her. A kiss so deep and soft that, despite everything, she felt herself respond to the touch of his lips on hers, the contours of his body. He held her as if she were made of the most delicate porcelain that he was afraid to drop or crush, strength and softness in one embrace. Her arms went round his neck as if drawn by some invisible chain, and she felt the corded thickness of his queue where it lay upon his neck. A wave of desire swept through her body. Her arms responded, entwining his neck and head, deepening the kiss. Zhen felt her emotion, felt his own, lifted her from the ground and pulled her closer into him. Floating, she felt liquefied, as if he, like some ancient alchemist, had blended their two base souls into molten gold.

‘O Love, O fire! Once he drew

With one long kiss my whole soul thro'

My lips,

As sunlight drinketh dew'

When he finally released her—took his lips from hers with slow reluctance and made them clay again—she drooped weakly onto the stone bench. Zhen fell to his knees in front of her. Bringing his crossed arms to his forehead he gently put his face into her lap in a gesture of submission so completely unexpected it moved her to the core.

Qian, embarrassed and a little jealous, had retreated to the other side of the tree. He had never seen a man kiss a woman like that, and he would have liked to feel Zhen's hard arms around him.

Without thinking, Charlotte put her hands on his head and dropped her face to kiss the place where his queue began, laying her cheek against his naked skin and entwining her fingers in the red-threaded, plaited silkiness of his hair. And so they stayed quietly. A little breeze rustled the leaves of the tree above, which fell in a golden shower over them.

Qian peeped round the tree. It was like an antique painting. To see them sitting so touched his heart, but he did not know where all this would end. He moved through the dried leaves, and Zhen and Charlotte stirred.

‘What do you want?' she asked through Qian, her eyes on Zhen.

‘To see you, meet you, speak with you,' he said. Qian translated. ‘I'll never touch you again if you don't want it. This marriage is nothing. Economic necessity. You must not have pain because of it. All my heart belongs to you.'

All this was difficult for Qian to find the words to explain. She put her hand on Qian's arm, reassuring him. She understood. It was all right. Zhen wanted them to be lovers, one way or another. Marriage with her, impossible. Marriage to the other woman because he was poor. She needed to think about this very carefully, not surrender to the emotions which were swirling around in her.

‘Yes, see, speak,' she said quietly. These words he understood. It was enough. He lowered his head in relief.

They parted without another word, and Qian walked back to the chapel with Charlotte. He liked this woman very much, for he felt her heart was pure. He was worried that she would be consumed and destroyed by this passion and love of Zhen's for her. He knew the force of Zhen's character. He was as adept at the
wu wei
, the soft letting-be nature of the Tao, as with its disciplines. If he felt this Xia Lou was his by natural right he would be as the river, pulling her into the flow as effortlessly but relentlessly as a flower petal is carried on the current of a stream.