Oh, how I love contraptions. Impersonal devices or set ups that slowly draw a damsel to her destruction are in my view far more fun than personally turning the screws on a damsel stretched out on a rack. I can’t be alone: I think this is the reason for the popularity of the clichéd “damsel tied to the tracks” peril. The train is just coming, nothing personal, just deadly – and there is nothing the damsel can do to stop it.
That principle – impersonal implacability – is the guiding one behind my love of contraptions. If they are scary looking, so much the better. But they should also have an elegant simplicity to them. As a good friend recently said, “If you need to enclose a diagram to make it clear, you’ve gone too far.”
Indeed, that is what separates a true villain from a Promethean anti-hero like Wile E Coyote. Mr Coyote is to be pitied more than feared – a victim of the Acme Company’s mail order promises and made-in-China materials. But I digress.
For the last few months I have been stressing atmosphere and setting in my stories. The perils themselves have tended to be minor embellishments of classics. (An example in a recent story I wrote for Peril Place was filling a dunking booth with highly corrosive sodium hydroxide pellets – this is just a solid form of Drano, and – uh, trust me on this one – it dissolves flesh quickly and horribly.)
I suppose some really fiendish traps are those which have two or more damsels in peril, and making them choose which one lives and which one dies. In another story I wrote a while back for Peril Place (yeah, the place deserves a plug!) three damsels were tied on a melting ice floe over a pool filled with hammerhead sharks. Eventually the floe would shrink until not all three could stay on it. Who would go in first?
There was another very complicated set up later in the same story with three interrelated perils occurring simultaneously. One damsel was trapped in a tank filling with water, with a float attached to a servomechanism that would take a second damsel, who was tied to a log, closer and closer to a buzzsaw. The first damsel could hold down the float and slow down the second damsel’s buzzsaw peril, but drown more quickly as a result. The second damsel could grab a rope that would hold back the log for a little while, but said rope went round the neck of damsel number 3, who would be strangled thereby. Damsel 3 was tied to a chair between some ominous industrial capacitors, with a rod that would slowly descend, eventually connecting a circuit that would discharge the capacitors and incinerate the heroine. Two pedals were within reach of damsel 3’s tidily bound feet. One pedal would drain water out of the first damsel’s water chamber, but, alas, hasten the rod that would incinerate damsel 3. The other pedal slowed down the rod, but accelerated pace of water pouring into damsel 1’s booth, thus speeding up the demise of both the other damsels. Oh, how I enjoyed working that one out…)
I haven’t been doing as many of those because I haven’t been doing many multiple damsel perils lately. I tend to focus on one-on-one perils. I know some heroines really want company (I know of one who wants to do a campy/sexy version of Electra Woman and Dyna Girl – and yes, I would love that!). But it is hard to give equal detailed attention to two heroines at the same time in the same story. So usually my multiple damsel/ extra complicated traps are for public consumption, and for quite a while I was so busy with private peril stories I really couldn’t do any public ones.
I hope I do get the time to do a few more public ones. No promises when, though. I am always looking for damsel, er, volunteers….
Sunday, June 28, 2009
Friday, June 26, 2009
Emma Davies and the Great Race - Chapter 6: Death in Delhi
(When we last left Emma, she was about to be sacrificed on a funeral pyre...)
You writhe helplessly in your tight rope bonds, lashed decoratively to the top of a small tower of wood and wicker, as a procession of grieving Indians moves toward you, the men bearing torches to turn that same ziggurat into a funeral pyre – yours! Behind you, the Taj Mahal in all its splendour begins to turn a delicate rose colour as the setting sun seems to make the marbel glow – a beautiful foreshadowing of the terrible immolation about to befall you!
Osgoode continues to gloat as the procession advances down the long plaza toward you. “In theory, the practice of sati -- wives burned on their husbands pyres -- was banned in 1850 by Her Majesty’s Administration,” Osgoode says, placing a beautiful violet orchid in your hair at your left ear, “but try telling these people that. Ah, look!” he says, directing your attention to two men in the middle of the procession, “they have already carved your mahasati -- your ‘heroine stone’ as they call it. In other words, your tombstone!”
Two men in saffron robes and turbans carry a heavy stele of granite carved with words in Sanskrit and depictions of your heroic – though involuntary – self sacrifice. The crowd is beginning to gather around you, weeping and chanting as they prepare to set you on fire!
“Who says the locals aren’t industrious?” Osgoode says, checking your bonds one last time to make sure they are still tight. He needn’t have bothered – your struggles have proven to you how hopeless your situation is. The ropes bite into your bare wrists and ankles; the gag is making your mouth parched. Your eyes well up with tears as Osgoode blows you a cruelly sarcastic kiss. You turn away to deny him the satisfaction of seeing your distress, and your eyes are once again arrested by the majesty of the Taj Mahal. You dissolve in a miserable combination of fear and loathing toward the villain, and awesome insignificance before the majesty of the architectural wonder.
The nasty lawyer lets a smug smile emerge from his thin lips as he takes hold of your chin with his bony fingers, and forces you to look back at him. “How ironic that the Mughals who built this were Moslems, the ones who will burn you are Hindu, and I was raised a Christian. Your demise will have a true multi-faith dimension!” he says, looking you over up and down with distinctly un-Christian thoughts running through is head for a moment. But you both hear the procession has stopped, and the crowd s ready to set fire to the funeral pyre.
Osgoode lays a rose on your chest and steps down. You arch your back in reflexive fear as several large Hindu men approach your pyre with burning torches! You moan as loudly as you can in your gag, twisting and turning in your tight and unyielding rope restraints, hoping that you can convince them to reconsider!
Nothing seems to alter their determination to immolate you. The Hindus place the torches at the base of the pyre, and in short moments the dry wood and wicker at the bottom are smoking, then burst into flame! Smoke starts to rise toward you, making you cough through your gag. You close your eyes, hoping for a quick end, as you begin to feel the heat of the flames that are rising toward you!
It all seems so hopeless. You are far away from al possible help. Uncle Ned, Serge, all your protectors are gone. Even your plane is now hundreds of miles away in Chittagong . It’s a horrible way to end, so far away from home….
You feel the ropes tighten ever so slightly as the heat begins to dry them out, making them dig ever so slightly more into your skin. You barely struggle now, as you try to remain calm, and think of friends and family back in England . It should be over soon….
A commotion breaks out in the throng gathered around and below you. There is shouting, some of it angry! You open your eyes, and through the licks of flame and gasping smoke you see khaki-clad British soldiers dispersing the crowd. Others are opening fire extinguishers on the pyre, the whoosing and sputtering noise of the devices for a moment drowning out the altercation. The fire extinguishers beat down the flames on one side of the pyre, as someone bounds up toward you as if from a dream – tall, grey-haired – it’s impossible….
It’s Uncle Ned! Somehow he has found you in time! He cuts you free from the wicker frame and carries you off the pyre, in your violet sari. You throw your arms around his thick but kindly neck, curling up in his arms as he lifts you to safety!
As he lowers you onto your feet on the soft grass, you ask, “But….how did you find me?’
“My staff and I followed the car – my car! – to Chittagong station. Aung Hla and Osgoode were clever; we could not find you in that throng. But we lay in wait until the driver returned to dispose of the evidence. We caught him, and he quickly confessed all he knew. We managed to race the train to Agra – luckily the Alvis is a pretty quick saloon!”
”I can’t thank you enough for rescuing me Uncle Ned!” you say, still shaky on your feet after such a close call.
“It is I who cannot apologize enough to you, Emma!” Ned replies. “I intended this to be fun. I used my network to make sure you would have a safe adventure. I did not know that Osgoode would use that knowledge to set a trap for you. But you have succeeded more than I could ever have thought possible, and overcame more than I ever intended.You will inherit my fortune, my dear!”
You smile, exhausted but gratified. Uncle Ned’s servants bring some refreshing lassi for you to drink. You look over Ned’s shoulder as Osgoode is handcuffed and led away to justice. You sigh, satisfied and content as you reflect on your adventures.
“They’ll never believe this back home,” you say to Uncle Ned.
FINIS
You writhe helplessly in your tight rope bonds, lashed decoratively to the top of a small tower of wood and wicker, as a procession of grieving Indians moves toward you, the men bearing torches to turn that same ziggurat into a funeral pyre – yours! Behind you, the Taj Mahal in all its splendour begins to turn a delicate rose colour as the setting sun seems to make the marbel glow – a beautiful foreshadowing of the terrible immolation about to befall you!
Osgoode continues to gloat as the procession advances down the long plaza toward you. “In theory, the practice of sati -- wives burned on their husbands pyres -- was banned in 1850 by Her Majesty’s Administration,” Osgoode says, placing a beautiful violet orchid in your hair at your left ear, “but try telling these people that. Ah, look!” he says, directing your attention to two men in the middle of the procession, “they have already carved your mahasati -- your ‘heroine stone’ as they call it. In other words, your tombstone!”
Two men in saffron robes and turbans carry a heavy stele of granite carved with words in Sanskrit and depictions of your heroic – though involuntary – self sacrifice. The crowd is beginning to gather around you, weeping and chanting as they prepare to set you on fire!
“Who says the locals aren’t industrious?” Osgoode says, checking your bonds one last time to make sure they are still tight. He needn’t have bothered – your struggles have proven to you how hopeless your situation is. The ropes bite into your bare wrists and ankles; the gag is making your mouth parched. Your eyes well up with tears as Osgoode blows you a cruelly sarcastic kiss. You turn away to deny him the satisfaction of seeing your distress, and your eyes are once again arrested by the majesty of the Taj Mahal. You dissolve in a miserable combination of fear and loathing toward the villain, and awesome insignificance before the majesty of the architectural wonder.
The nasty lawyer lets a smug smile emerge from his thin lips as he takes hold of your chin with his bony fingers, and forces you to look back at him. “How ironic that the Mughals who built this were Moslems, the ones who will burn you are Hindu, and I was raised a Christian. Your demise will have a true multi-faith dimension!” he says, looking you over up and down with distinctly un-Christian thoughts running through is head for a moment. But you both hear the procession has stopped, and the crowd s ready to set fire to the funeral pyre.
Osgoode lays a rose on your chest and steps down. You arch your back in reflexive fear as several large Hindu men approach your pyre with burning torches! You moan as loudly as you can in your gag, twisting and turning in your tight and unyielding rope restraints, hoping that you can convince them to reconsider!
Nothing seems to alter their determination to immolate you. The Hindus place the torches at the base of the pyre, and in short moments the dry wood and wicker at the bottom are smoking, then burst into flame! Smoke starts to rise toward you, making you cough through your gag. You close your eyes, hoping for a quick end, as you begin to feel the heat of the flames that are rising toward you!
It all seems so hopeless. You are far away from al possible help. Uncle Ned, Serge, all your protectors are gone. Even your plane is now hundreds of miles away in Chittagong . It’s a horrible way to end, so far away from home….
You feel the ropes tighten ever so slightly as the heat begins to dry them out, making them dig ever so slightly more into your skin. You barely struggle now, as you try to remain calm, and think of friends and family back in England . It should be over soon….
A commotion breaks out in the throng gathered around and below you. There is shouting, some of it angry! You open your eyes, and through the licks of flame and gasping smoke you see khaki-clad British soldiers dispersing the crowd. Others are opening fire extinguishers on the pyre, the whoosing and sputtering noise of the devices for a moment drowning out the altercation. The fire extinguishers beat down the flames on one side of the pyre, as someone bounds up toward you as if from a dream – tall, grey-haired – it’s impossible….
It’s Uncle Ned! Somehow he has found you in time! He cuts you free from the wicker frame and carries you off the pyre, in your violet sari. You throw your arms around his thick but kindly neck, curling up in his arms as he lifts you to safety!
As he lowers you onto your feet on the soft grass, you ask, “But….how did you find me?’
“My staff and I followed the car – my car! – to Chittagong station. Aung Hla and Osgoode were clever; we could not find you in that throng. But we lay in wait until the driver returned to dispose of the evidence. We caught him, and he quickly confessed all he knew. We managed to race the train to Agra – luckily the Alvis is a pretty quick saloon!”
”I can’t thank you enough for rescuing me Uncle Ned!” you say, still shaky on your feet after such a close call.
“It is I who cannot apologize enough to you, Emma!” Ned replies. “I intended this to be fun. I used my network to make sure you would have a safe adventure. I did not know that Osgoode would use that knowledge to set a trap for you. But you have succeeded more than I could ever have thought possible, and overcame more than I ever intended.You will inherit my fortune, my dear!”
You smile, exhausted but gratified. Uncle Ned’s servants bring some refreshing lassi for you to drink. You look over Ned’s shoulder as Osgoode is handcuffed and led away to justice. You sigh, satisfied and content as you reflect on your adventures.
“They’ll never believe this back home,” you say to Uncle Ned.
FINIS
Thursday, June 25, 2009
Emma and the Great Race - Chapter 5 -- India
Long time friends will know that I do not require my fantasy damsels to be as over the top girly-girl as Emma. It si appropriate for this story, though. I may post a superheroine story or a spy girl story down the road. I don't in the least mind a feisty damsel. But I do like a stereotypically feminine heroine from time to time....
Chapter 5 – India
(When we last left Emma, she had been brusquely kidnapped at Chiang Mai airfield, her volunteer protector, Serge Hainault, left for dead in front of her aeroplane. Whisked off to the jungle, she was now tied up in a coracle heading straight for the deadly rocks of the Huai Kaew waterfall!)
Tightly tied in your fetching travel outfit of a brown cropped leather jacket, form fitting cream jodhpurs and sleek leather boots, you squirm and twist desperately, but helplessly, as the little boat drifts downstream to your doom. Your filthy cleave gag stifles any chance of calling for help; not that there is anyone in this wilderness to hear you anyway. You can only look up at the canopy of tall trees which recede as you float downriver. The sound of the waterfall getting louder is the only hint of the terrible danger you are in. Were it not for that, your situation would be surprisingly peaceful!
But somewhere, above your head, the rapids are approaching. You twist and turn in more futile efforts to escape, but the fiends have bound you far too tightly. Once again, you are in desperate peril! Your blue eyes well up with tears, turning them to sapphires of despair as you realize how hopeless it all is. Even Serge – poor Serge! – can’t save you now!
As the stream picks up the little flat-bottomed coracle starts to spin in the eddies of the increasingly turbulent stream. The boat spins 180 degrees, giving you a momentary look at the hellish, roiling waters no more than a hundred yards ahead of you! Then the boat spins back, giving you a view only of the peaceful river upstream. But now you can link the sound of the falls with the distance to them, making your exact state of peril abundantly clear and knowable!
You rock your shoulders to and fro, tugging at your wrist bonds, flexing your legs in more pointless efforts to loosen your fiendishly tight restraints. No use at all! Your boots squeak as you rub them in their close bonds, and the cords dig into your wrists as you strain with desperate efforts. But it’s absolutely hopeless!
The coracle starts to spin around more and more as you approach the falls, giving you a giddy view of the banks, the river, the nearing waterfall! The roar of the falling water is the only constant, as it grows in volume and menace! You are maybe 60 yards, then 50, then 40 with each turn of the little boat! You can’t help sobbing in frustration and fear as you writhe impotently, bound so helplessly in your sleek outfit in the drifting coracle!
It all looks hopeless now, You surrender to you fate, hoping it won’t hurt as much as it seems it might. The little boat starts rocking as well as turning as the stream turbulence mounts. The roar of the rapids is infernally loud now, drowning out even your own thoughts as you are petrified in pure mortal terror of you imminent destruction!
One more spin brings the sickening realization that you are now less than 30 yards from the rapids. The little coracles rocks, shot left and right by the swirling eddies as well as occasionally making terrifying accelerations and sudden decelerations toward gnashing rocks ahead! You think you’re going to be sick with all the queasy motions that are ever more erratic. Your chest heaves with a massive gasping sob at the…the….unfairness of it all!
At that moment, you hear a rough rasping sound at the bottom of the boat, as wood grates on rock. The rapids are almost upon you! You are spun around violently as one side of the coracle runs aground but the other is shot forward, spinning the keel-less craft like a top, careening wildly, As it spins it tilts downstream, giving you a horrifying view of the hellish maw of rocks that are now right in front of you! Then just as suddenly the boat bounces off a submerged rock in the stream, and is thrust like a slingshot off to the side, where the coracle is cast upon shallow shale near the bank. The coracle rolls and yaws, then…..stops! Miraculously, the boat has run aground just before the lip of the rapids! You can’t see it, but you can just imagine the flat bed of rock shimmering just under the surface of the water, holding you back, however tenuously, from your destruction!
You heave a sigh of relief, before you realize that your salvation is only temporary. The stream continues to tug the coracle away from the rocky shelf on which it now lies. The river is so turbulent, one false shift of weight at the wrong moment could send you back out into the main current of the river, and over the edge! You squirm gingerly in your tight bonds, unwilling to struggle too hard to free yourself in case your very exertions take the boat of its impromptu moorings! Oh, it’d just torture, not being able to really try to get free, but knowing that if you don’t, you still might be carried into the stream!
You wriggle as much as you dare while the coracle swings back and forth in the partial current. You shudder every time it seems that the boat is about to break free of the shale. But it’s hopeless: this is almost worse than just getting it over with and going over the edge to your demise!
You immediately try to recant that thought as a particularly strong swirl of current lifts the boat up a fraction of an inch too far – and you can feel the coracle start to grind its way off the river bed! You scream involuntarily into your gag, helpless at the end, as the boat is unclenched from the rock!
At that moment, when all seems lost, you hear something heavy and made of metal fall into your little boat, by your bound feet, with a firm clank sound, You are delirious with terror , but to your surprise, the boat is suddenly stopped in its tracks, held in place at the far end of the coracle. It takes you a moment to comprehend, under the circumstances, but the boat is being reeled to shore! The metal object was some sort of grappling hook thrown at the last second to save you!
You look up, and see Serge, of all people, his head roughly bandaged, pulling you to safety. His clothes are torn and bloodied. He staggers to the edge of the river bank once your boat is safely aground, and he kneels into the water to rip off your gag.
“Serge! Oh, thank you!” you stammer, unable to say any more, so overcome are you at your last minute reprieve from disaster!
Serge looks down at you, with labored panting as he smiles with as much aplomb as he can muster. He tries to doff his hat to you, but only rustles his bandage and winces with pain as he does so. He recovers quickly, and says “Apologies, mademoiselle, for being so late with your rescue. My injuries…..” he reels for a moment just thinking about them.
At that moment you see several Asian men coming up behind him. It might be the goons who kidnapped you! “Serge! Look out behind you!” you shout. Serge slowly gets up to his feet and wheels around in a parody of drunkenness brought on by shock and blood loss.
He chuckles. “My dear Miss Davies, these are a delegation from Sang Ka Lok Ceramics – the real delegation! May I present Mr Tirin Swamasrikreunbpata; Mr Kiet Coirayadaram, and Mr Daw Kruensridat.” The three lean but short men bow politely. Tirin seems oldest, with a face beginning to show lines from the sun. Kiet and Daw are junior, but smiling and seemingly unstressed despite the desperate race to save you. All three have kindly, honest faces.
You twist a little in your bonds. “I’d shake your hands, gentlemen, but….” The Thai men jump to your aid and immediately start untying you.
Serge says, “And now, my dear….if you will forgive my appalling manners, I must pass out now.” Exhausted, he crumbles to the ground as the Thais lift you out of the boat. You are unsteady on your feet for a moment but you rush over to Serge.
“We’ve got to get him to a hospital!” you exclaim.
“Yes, but he would not hear of it until you were rescued,” says Tirin, who guides you away from the river bank while the other two lift Serge up to his feet and walk him away from the river.
“But…how did you find me?” you ask.
“We arrived to find Monsieur Hainault lying on the ground. We bandaged him up and he said you were in great danger. So we followed the road and from a distance saw the bad men placing you in the boat. We immediately deduced their plans, but they were too many and far too heavily armed for us to challenge. We raced downstream to stop your boat before…..”
You are led to another large automobile. Serge is in a daze as Kiet and Daw place him in the back of the automobile. Tirin gently guides you into the seat in front of Serge. “We shall tend to him at the clinic next to the factory.”
You look worriedly at Serge, who is very pale from blood loss.
“Have no fear, Achara,” Tirin says. “He will be all right. But he will have to rest here for many days, perhaps weeks.”
You are reassured. “What did you call me?’ you ask innocently.
“Achara – it is a name for you, it means ‘pretty angel’,” Tirin says with a gracious smile that is meant to say, “you are safe now.”
You blush from the compliment. “Thank you,” you say softly.
“Mai ben rai,” says Tirin. “That’s a handy phrase in Thai by the way – it means anything from “don’t mention it” to “it’s OK” to “don’t worry about it”.”
“How do you say thank you?” you ask.
The Thais beam. “As a girl you say ‘khorb khun kaa’.”
“Then khorb khun kaa for finding me in time!” you say.
You drive by a huge Buddhist temple complex whose exterior is entirely covered in gold. It is a stupefying sight, with rows upon rows of statues around the perimeter of the main building. “That is Wat Doi Suthep,” Kiet explains from the back as your jaw nearly drops at the magnificence of it.
You head into town and every so often, between low rise buildings, another massive temple will suddenly emerge around a corner. One is exceedingly delicate, with ornately painted walls and a separate chedi of stone that sweeps up into a golden spire. You guides tell you this is Wat Chiang Men – the oldest temple in the city.
And then you see another beautiful temple, this one like waves of stone piled up to the sky. “Wat Chedi Luang,” observes Tirin. You soon cross a river – the Mae Ping – and head into a more modern and spread out part of the city.
You are soon at a huge complex that you quickly understand to be the Ceramics factory. Once inside the gates of the immense grounds, with soothing trees in lining the street and low buildings housing the ceramics works, the car heads to the left toward a white washed building that is clearly the factory infirmary. “Monsieur Hainault will have the best care here,” Tirin says as the car pulls up to the front of the infirmary. Kiet and Daw help orderlies get Serge onto a canvas stretcher; he is whisked into the inside of the building. “There is little you can do for your friend now. Perhaps I could give you the tour of Sang Ka Lok, as intended by your uncle, as a way of taking your mind off such a terrible event as occurred earlier?”
You smile, and despite it somehow seeming wrong to leave Serge, you realize it is best if you check on him after he has had rest and attention. You agree to a tour.
Tirin walks your through the impressive kilns and sculpting wheels, showing you the myriad varieties of wares for which the factory is justly renowned. Your mind is still on your ordeal, though. You ask Tirin, “Do you know who those men were who attacked us today?”
Tirin pauses. “Although Thailand is prosperous, times are hard nearby. Men from Laos and Cambodia come across the border, especially in the north where the terrain is more rugged and where the ethnicities are more mixed. Here in Chiang Mai all sorts can mix freely without scrutiny. The men who attacked you are known brigands – bad men, who will hire themselves out for bad work. The question you should ask is: who hired them?”
You puzzle over that question through the rest of the tour. Who would have a reason to eliminate you, especially in a way that would seem like an accident? The only thing you can think of that would be worth going to that trouble would be Uncle Ned’s fortune!
All of a sudden it dawns on you – it is so obvious: nearly being sold into slavery in Hong Kong, the horrible attempted sacrifice at Hue , and now this crude attempt at eliminating you. Someone else must be in line for the fortune! But it can’t be a family member – Uncle Ned has no other family, and….
Osgoode. It’s so obvious now. The perfidious lawyer is behind it all! You suddenly feel very vulnerable, out in the wilds of Asia , your only protector (whom you have known for all of 48 hours) hospitalized, and an enemy able to assault you from a thousand miles away through a network of henchmen and ruthless mercenaries.
You turn to Tirin. “I think I know who is behind this – Uncle Ned’s lawyer, Osgoode.”
“That is bad,” your gracious Thai host replies. “You should not stay here for long. Osgoode was always a problem for us – he has many servants here.”
Your heart sinks. “What can I do?”
“You are not far from India now – British territory, and farther away from Osgoode. I know that Edward-kun did not entrust his factories in India to Osgoode, but ran them directly. I think you will be safer there.”
“And Serge?” you ask hopefully.
“Monsieur Hainault will have to stay here. He cannot move. Emma-kun, you must be brave. We can escort you to the airfield and get you out of here. I was meant to tell you that your uncle meant you to go from here to Chittagong , in Burma , where his assistant, Aung-Hla, will guide you. Meet him at the Great Mosque!”
“Thank you, Tirin-kun,” you say, picking up on the honorifics. You are led to a spacious if Spartan room inside the factory grounds. At least it’s safe, with thick walls and loyal personnel guarding you as you rest.
You have a delicious Thai meal that night: tom kha gai (chicken and coconut soup) , hor muk (steamed fish in banana leaves; duck jungle curry with sticky rice, pad puk ruam mit (mixed vegetables in soy sauce) and khao neow mu-muang (mango with sweet rice) for dessert. You eat eagerly after your latest tribulations, but are impressed with the emphasis on presentation – the meal in that respect is to your mind almost European.
You sleep like a log in the cool and pleasant air of the highlands. Refreshed, you check in on Serge after the morning. You thank him again for his rescuing you – twice. “Think nothing of it, mademoiselle – someone so fair will always be rescued, the universe requires it.” Serge groans as even this required effort. “But cherie, I can no longer escort you. You must make your way to Burma , and then to India proper, as Tirin suggests. You will be safer under British law.”
The next morning, a large contingent of personnel from the ceramics factory guides you to the air strip. They examine every inch of the De Havilland to make sure it has not been sabotaged; satisfied, they allow you to board it. You are once again in your sleek and tight fitting flying outfit, and for all your justified trepidation, you want to see this through. By now you are worried about Uncle Ned – perhaps he is in trouble, too?
The propeller of the De Havilland Tiger Moth begins to spin as the engine sputters to life, then emits a healthy, happy droning sound. Your companions remove the blocks form the aeroplane’s wheels. You wave to them as you taxi to the end of the air strip, and take off into a clear blue morning. You have a spectacular and uneventful flight over the lush mountains of the Shan States that form the border between Siam and Burma . In a few hours you cross over the watershed, and are once again in British air space, deep valleys of glittering blue streams cutting into verdant sharp hills and uplands . You relax a little – you are now in the territory of the Raj – Osgoode would hardly dare assault you now!
You descend into the lush and humid valley of the Irrawaddy, toward the white city of Mandalay for refueling. You sweep gracefully over the huge white stupas of the Sandamani Paya, a startlingly beautiful Buddhist complex set amidst deep green trees on the Mandalay Hills. You touch down with ease on a crystal clear day, and relax as your plane is refueled for the next stage of your journey.
You soon are ready to take off again, and it’s another trip over steep hills, as your course changes from northwest to almost due west, toward the coast of the Bay of Bengal . After a few enjoyable hours of flying, the mountains give way to a spectacular view of the littoral. At the edge of visibility, in a pink afternoon haze, you can make out the buildings and minarets of a great city – Chittagong – against the light blue of the Indian Ocean .
You land at the airfield outside Chittagong , where a prim Bengali is standing ready to greet you. He dressed more for the London Stock Exchange than rumble-tumble Chittagong – charcoal grey pin-stripe business suit, vest, bowler hat, and, incongruously, a black umbrella. There is not a cloud in the sky – just the haze of a hot afternoon.
“Aung Hla at your service, Miss Davies!” said the Bengali man. “Mr Nesbitt -- your Uncle Edward -- sent me to greet you!”
You smile, taking off your leather flying helmet and letting your long black hair cascade around your face and down your back. The delightful day flying, and – for once – finding the contact you expected at the airfield – makes you a bit giddy with a sense of achievement.
“Thank you for coming to the airfield,” you say, smiling. “I was told you were going to meet me at the Grand Mosque!”
Aung Hla is diminuative, several inches shorter than you, but wiry, with quick black eyes and an easy smile. “Ah, yes, but after all your tribulations, Mr Nesbitt said we should take no chances and bring you safely to him.”
Your heart leaps up at the thought of finally meeting dear Uncle Ned. “Is Uncle Ned in Chittagong ? Please, take me to him!”
“That I shall, Miss Davies!” Aung Hla replies briskly. “Please, this way. I will send assistant to bring your bags later.”
You follow Aung Hla’s lead as he takes you to a waiting car, another big black saloon, but a modern, proper 1931 Alvis 12/50 saloon. Aung-Hla sits in the passenger area next to you, as a driver turns the ignition and begins the drive into Chittagong .
You marvel at the busy city, with its maze of low buildings, endless series of tiny markets for fish, produce, and goods. The car often has to slow down for pedestrian and bicycle traffic as you wind your way into the city.
You approach a giant building complex, with onion shaped spiraled domes and red walls. This must be the Grand Mosque! ”Are we meeting my uncle there?” you ask.
“No, Miss Davies, sadly, you cannot enter the mosque dressed for flying,” Aung Hla says. “We will see Mr Nesbitt in his hillside home.”
“Oh, all right,” you say, a little disappointed that you won’t be able to enjoy the splendour of the impressive mosque. Out of the corner of your eye , as you pass near one entrance to the mosque, you see a tall Westerner, grey-haired, so very familiar. It’s Uncle Ned!
“Oh!”you exclaim. “Wait! There he is!”
“You must be mistaken, Miss Davies,” Aung Hla says calmly. “Mr Nesbitt is waiting for us at home.”
You turn around and look out the back. Uncle Ned sees the car go by, recognizes it, and sees you in the back! He starts waving frantically and tries to chase after your car!
“No! I am sure it is him! He was waving at the car to stop!” you say, more insistent now.
You turn to look at Aung Hla to reason with him. You are shocked to see he is holding a gun pointed straight at you!
“What is the meaning of this?” you exclaim.
“Apologies, Miss Davies. My employer wishes to see you,” the Bengali says.
“Your employer? Uncle Ned is your employer!”
“Not any more!” says Aung Hla. “Someone is paying a higher wage!”
“I demand that you let me go!” you say, indignant and also increasingly afraid.
Aung Hla smiles slowly and crookedly as the driver accelerates through the crowds. “You are coming with us!” he says. “Turn your back to me now, Miss Davies, and put your hands behind your back!”
Aung Hla’s menacing proddings soon convince you that resistance would be foolhardy in the extreme. You comply reluctantly, putting your hands behind your back where the villain can easily bind them. You feel strong cords being looped around your wrists, your shoulders sagging as you realize that once again you have fallen into a trap.
“Uncle Ned will stop you!” you vow defiantly, twisting your wrists pointlessly, testing your bonds and finding them tight and unyielding.
“I doubt that!” says the Bengali, chuckling as the car drives up in front of a freight area in the rear of the Chittagong train station. Unlike the passenger entrance in front, which is chaotic enough but at least a public space, the freight stalls in back resemble little more than an enormous loading dock, with a vast, labyrinthine open air market in goods legal and illegal spreading out from the rail platforms.
“What are you doing?” you ask, your voice quavering with alarm. “I demand that you let me g—ummmppphhhhffff!” Your plea is cut short as Aung Hla stuffs a wad of cloth in your mouth, filling it up with a stale taste of rough hemp and dust. He thrusts a scarf between your teeth and pulls the ends into a tight cleave, sealing the gag in. You feel the corners of your mouth pulled back as he tightens the cleave mercilessly.
“Mmpphhfff!” you beg, now frightened at the sinister intentions of your new captor. You try to kick as the car comes to a halt, hoping to make a desperate bid for help from the car. But Aung Hla is too fast for you, and pulls your legs up hard on the seat, forcing you into an almost reclining position as he ties your booted ankles together.
“Heh heh heh, no more trouble from you, Miss Davies!” he hisses as he knots your ankle bonds. You squirm, desperately but hopelessly, but the ropes holding you are far to strong and tight for you to have even the slightest chance of escape!
The driver opens the rear door to the saloon and spreads a luxurious Persian Qom rug on the ground in front of the door. The driver and Aung Hla quickly carry you out of the automobile and place you athwart the carpet at one end. They then start to roll you up! In an instant you are wrapped up in the carpet, unable to move at all, barely able to breathe!
You feel yourself being lifted and carried. You hear the squawking of the vendors outside the train station, then the incomprehensibly vague calls on the speakers of the stationmasters, then you know you are being lifted into a train compartment. Suddenly the raucous and confusing sounds and smells are gone. All is quiet. You feel yourself being placed on a floor. Then, without warning, the carpet is unceremoniously unwound and you are flung, bound and gagged, onto the floor of what must be a private car on a train!
Your eyes adjust to the light, after having been in the dark rolled up in the carpet for some time. You are in a sumptuously decorated room, with brocaded drapery over the window and oak paneling on the walls. Nautically themed oil paintings combine with Hindu silk screen prints to give a bizarrely exotic, though culturally hybrid, feel to the room. It is all very overblown, very out of date Anglo-Indian style of the Diamond Jubilee – sleek Art Deco has not seen the light of day here yet!
You have little time to assess the retro taste of your captors, for Aung Hla and the driver pull you up and drag you by the arms to a heavy chair bolted down on one heavy central support to the floor. The fiends take up more ropes, and quickly tie your shoulders and waist to the back of the chair. They also take your bound ankles, pull them back savagely, and lash them to the chair support. You glare at them for all the indignities you have endured.
Aung Hla nods to the driver, who departs the room. The traitor then turns to you, leaning in toward you, his hands on the arms of the chair. “Your Uncle Ned won’t save you, pretty little Emma Davies! You want to know why?”
You hear a whistle and feel the train start to move. You eyes open wide with alarm. Where are the fiends taking you?
“That’s right,” Aung Hla says. “We’re going far away from your uncle. He won’t even know what city you’re in. My employer has a special fate prepared for you!” The Bengali’s exact but accented diction lends extra menace to his threat.
“Mmmpphhff!” you say, squirming in your tight and unbreakable bonds.
“Those nice men in Chiang Mai did not betray you, Emma!” the villain says smugly. “They really thought I was trustworthy. I was going to abduct you in the Grand Mosque, but your uncle announced that he would make a surprise appearance – it seems he had heard of your perils and had decided to make sure you were safe in Chittagong . That meant a change of plans for me – so I met you at the airfield instead.”
You squirm some more, already knowing that escape is impossible. You mew into your gag, hoping that Aung Hla can be convinced to rejoin your side. Aung Hla grins evilly as you struggle, but your sad, pleading eyes and pathetic writhing seem not to affect him.
“I will leave you here, Miss Davies. My employer will surely want to see you soon. Don’t go wandering…hah hah hah hah!”
You glower as Aung Hla leaves the room. You hear the door lock. You resume your desperate struggles, but all you do is make the ropes bite into your delicate wrists. Your leather boots squeak as you tug and twist with yoru legs in futile attempts to free your ankles.
The train is now chugging along nicely – although the curtains are drawn, you must be out of the city now – on your way to a dubious destination.
You’ve got to find a way out! You look around the room, but there is no implement that could possibly be used to cut your way free. You tug firmly at your bonds, and try to tip the chair over with your body weight – anything to give you some hope of freedom. Nothing works. You slump in your chair, defeated and as helpless as ever!
The train maintains a steady clackety clack over the ramshackle rails of the Raj. You start to sob, dejected and hopeless.
After some time miserably tied to the chair, you hear the door unlock. In steps a tall bony man with a thin mustache – a man you recognize from Hong Kong: Osgoode!
“Good day, Miss Davies!” Osgoode said, pouring himself a cognac into a snifter and sitting deftly in another chair, admiring you in your captivity. “I’d offer you a drink, but…” he let his sentence die with a mocking smile. “Don’t you enjoy the romance of trains? The thrill of unknown destinations, exotic locales….”
You look into his beady eyes and see nothing but evil, avarice, and despite in them. You are chilled to the bone – you are utterly in the clutches of this unspeakable fiend! You look away, fighting back the urge to cry.
Osgoode continues. “You’re going to die, Emma. You know that, I hope. You’ve been lucky so far, but now – I will make sure of it personally – you are going to die.”
You shoot a look of frustration and rage and him and thrash in your bonds, squealing through your gag . The lawyer laughs as you exhaust yourself.
“Emma, your last voyage, currently underway, is up the Ganges Plain, toward New Delhi . We are going a little beyond Delhi , where we have a special feast awaiting you! Now, I am afraid we want you refreshed for your final appearance, so I think now is about the right time for a nap, don’t you think?”
You moan and shake your head, but Osgoode has a white rag ready, along with a bottle of chloroform. He soaks the rag, and clamps it over your nose and mouth. You squirm, trying to avoid the soporific fumes, but bound as you are you cannot resist for long. Soon he has the rag over your nose and mouth, you inhale as you must, and immediately begin to feel sleepy. In a matter of moments, you slump, unconscious, in the chair.
…
Your eyes flutter as you begin to awaken. You are outdoors. A soft breeze wafts across your body as it reclines on wicker of some kind. Your clothes shift gently in the cool, pleasant zephyr….You realize you are no longer in your flying outfit. Your leather jacket, jodhurs, and boots are gone. You are wearing something silk, something layered, soft – tight across the uppers arms and chest, flowing elsewhere. You look down. You are dressed in a beautiful violet coloured sari.
You try to get up. At that moment the pleasantness is gone, for you realize you are tightly bound, your arms over your head, your ankles tied together and also lashed down to the wicker cot – or frame. You are barefoot, save for small bells strapped like a bracelet around your ankles. The sari is so diaphanous you feel almost naked in places– silly, as the violet silk is quite opaque and your clothing both sensuous and modest.
You try to call for help, but you are tightly cleave gagged, as before. You look around -- and are dumbstruck at the vision to your left.
A vast courtyard in white marble surrounds an elongated rectangular pool. On the far side of the esplanade is the most famous building in Asia – the white marble walls, the delicate, domed architecture. All of a sudden it hits you – the location, the wicker, the reason for the sari.
You are tied to a funeral pyre in front of the Taj Mahal.
You start to squirm desperately, hoping the wicker is soft enough to bend or break. But your efforts are in vain. You are inextricably tied on top of a pile of wicker, firewood, and other combustibles.
You look to the right and see Osgoode climbing the ziggurat of wood atop which you are trapped. “Ah Emma, I have arranged a special celebration for you. You may know that in some Hindu families, when the husband dies, the wife is burned alive as part of his funeral. Ah, you say, but you are not married? A mere technicality. You see, I found a family where the wife, reasonably not wanting to be immolated, fled to Nepal . The family felt that they were dishonoured unless someone would be willing to take the wife’s place. I volunteered you, my dear!”
You squeal in horror and arch your back helplessly in more attempts to find a weakness in your bonds. But there is none!
“No one can save you now, Emma. You’ll be happy to know, the family thinks you’re prettier than the girl who fled. So you are advancing their karma. And of course, with you dead, I’ll get Ned’s money, so in a way you’re going to advance my karma, too!”
You look at Osgoode with desperate, pleading eyes. But the greedy lawyer merely wants to savour his victory.
“Ah, I think the procession is coming. Enjoy this quaint heathen ceremony. I know I will!”
You see a large solemn procession of Indians, men in saffron shirts and white trousers, each bearing lit torches. Weeping and wailing women follow them, all heading toward you….
Is this the end? Is Emma doomed to be a Hindu sacrifice? Stay turned for the answers to these burning questions!
(When we last left Emma, she had been brusquely kidnapped at Chiang Mai airfield, her volunteer protector, Serge Hainault, left for dead in front of her aeroplane. Whisked off to the jungle, she was now tied up in a coracle heading straight for the deadly rocks of the Huai Kaew waterfall!)
Tightly tied in your fetching travel outfit of a brown cropped leather jacket, form fitting cream jodhpurs and sleek leather boots, you squirm and twist desperately, but helplessly, as the little boat drifts downstream to your doom. Your filthy cleave gag stifles any chance of calling for help; not that there is anyone in this wilderness to hear you anyway. You can only look up at the canopy of tall trees which recede as you float downriver. The sound of the waterfall getting louder is the only hint of the terrible danger you are in. Were it not for that, your situation would be surprisingly peaceful!
But somewhere, above your head, the rapids are approaching. You twist and turn in more futile efforts to escape, but the fiends have bound you far too tightly. Once again, you are in desperate peril! Your blue eyes well up with tears, turning them to sapphires of despair as you realize how hopeless it all is. Even Serge – poor Serge! – can’t save you now!
As the stream picks up the little flat-bottomed coracle starts to spin in the eddies of the increasingly turbulent stream. The boat spins 180 degrees, giving you a momentary look at the hellish, roiling waters no more than a hundred yards ahead of you! Then the boat spins back, giving you a view only of the peaceful river upstream. But now you can link the sound of the falls with the distance to them, making your exact state of peril abundantly clear and knowable!
You rock your shoulders to and fro, tugging at your wrist bonds, flexing your legs in more pointless efforts to loosen your fiendishly tight restraints. No use at all! Your boots squeak as you rub them in their close bonds, and the cords dig into your wrists as you strain with desperate efforts. But it’s absolutely hopeless!
The coracle starts to spin around more and more as you approach the falls, giving you a giddy view of the banks, the river, the nearing waterfall! The roar of the falling water is the only constant, as it grows in volume and menace! You are maybe 60 yards, then 50, then 40 with each turn of the little boat! You can’t help sobbing in frustration and fear as you writhe impotently, bound so helplessly in your sleek outfit in the drifting coracle!
It all looks hopeless now, You surrender to you fate, hoping it won’t hurt as much as it seems it might. The little boat starts rocking as well as turning as the stream turbulence mounts. The roar of the rapids is infernally loud now, drowning out even your own thoughts as you are petrified in pure mortal terror of you imminent destruction!
One more spin brings the sickening realization that you are now less than 30 yards from the rapids. The little coracles rocks, shot left and right by the swirling eddies as well as occasionally making terrifying accelerations and sudden decelerations toward gnashing rocks ahead! You think you’re going to be sick with all the queasy motions that are ever more erratic. Your chest heaves with a massive gasping sob at the…the….unfairness of it all!
At that moment, you hear a rough rasping sound at the bottom of the boat, as wood grates on rock. The rapids are almost upon you! You are spun around violently as one side of the coracle runs aground but the other is shot forward, spinning the keel-less craft like a top, careening wildly, As it spins it tilts downstream, giving you a horrifying view of the hellish maw of rocks that are now right in front of you! Then just as suddenly the boat bounces off a submerged rock in the stream, and is thrust like a slingshot off to the side, where the coracle is cast upon shallow shale near the bank. The coracle rolls and yaws, then…..stops! Miraculously, the boat has run aground just before the lip of the rapids! You can’t see it, but you can just imagine the flat bed of rock shimmering just under the surface of the water, holding you back, however tenuously, from your destruction!
You heave a sigh of relief, before you realize that your salvation is only temporary. The stream continues to tug the coracle away from the rocky shelf on which it now lies. The river is so turbulent, one false shift of weight at the wrong moment could send you back out into the main current of the river, and over the edge! You squirm gingerly in your tight bonds, unwilling to struggle too hard to free yourself in case your very exertions take the boat of its impromptu moorings! Oh, it’d just torture, not being able to really try to get free, but knowing that if you don’t, you still might be carried into the stream!
You wriggle as much as you dare while the coracle swings back and forth in the partial current. You shudder every time it seems that the boat is about to break free of the shale. But it’s hopeless: this is almost worse than just getting it over with and going over the edge to your demise!
You immediately try to recant that thought as a particularly strong swirl of current lifts the boat up a fraction of an inch too far – and you can feel the coracle start to grind its way off the river bed! You scream involuntarily into your gag, helpless at the end, as the boat is unclenched from the rock!
At that moment, when all seems lost, you hear something heavy and made of metal fall into your little boat, by your bound feet, with a firm clank sound, You are delirious with terror , but to your surprise, the boat is suddenly stopped in its tracks, held in place at the far end of the coracle. It takes you a moment to comprehend, under the circumstances, but the boat is being reeled to shore! The metal object was some sort of grappling hook thrown at the last second to save you!
You look up, and see Serge, of all people, his head roughly bandaged, pulling you to safety. His clothes are torn and bloodied. He staggers to the edge of the river bank once your boat is safely aground, and he kneels into the water to rip off your gag.
“Serge! Oh, thank you!” you stammer, unable to say any more, so overcome are you at your last minute reprieve from disaster!
Serge looks down at you, with labored panting as he smiles with as much aplomb as he can muster. He tries to doff his hat to you, but only rustles his bandage and winces with pain as he does so. He recovers quickly, and says “Apologies, mademoiselle, for being so late with your rescue. My injuries…..” he reels for a moment just thinking about them.
At that moment you see several Asian men coming up behind him. It might be the goons who kidnapped you! “Serge! Look out behind you!” you shout. Serge slowly gets up to his feet and wheels around in a parody of drunkenness brought on by shock and blood loss.
He chuckles. “My dear Miss Davies, these are a delegation from Sang Ka Lok Ceramics – the real delegation! May I present Mr Tirin Swamasrikreunbpata; Mr Kiet Coirayadaram, and Mr Daw Kruensridat.” The three lean but short men bow politely. Tirin seems oldest, with a face beginning to show lines from the sun. Kiet and Daw are junior, but smiling and seemingly unstressed despite the desperate race to save you. All three have kindly, honest faces.
You twist a little in your bonds. “I’d shake your hands, gentlemen, but….” The Thai men jump to your aid and immediately start untying you.
Serge says, “And now, my dear….if you will forgive my appalling manners, I must pass out now.” Exhausted, he crumbles to the ground as the Thais lift you out of the boat. You are unsteady on your feet for a moment but you rush over to Serge.
“We’ve got to get him to a hospital!” you exclaim.
“Yes, but he would not hear of it until you were rescued,” says Tirin, who guides you away from the river bank while the other two lift Serge up to his feet and walk him away from the river.
“But…how did you find me?” you ask.
“We arrived to find Monsieur Hainault lying on the ground. We bandaged him up and he said you were in great danger. So we followed the road and from a distance saw the bad men placing you in the boat. We immediately deduced their plans, but they were too many and far too heavily armed for us to challenge. We raced downstream to stop your boat before…..”
You are led to another large automobile. Serge is in a daze as Kiet and Daw place him in the back of the automobile. Tirin gently guides you into the seat in front of Serge. “We shall tend to him at the clinic next to the factory.”
You look worriedly at Serge, who is very pale from blood loss.
“Have no fear, Achara,” Tirin says. “He will be all right. But he will have to rest here for many days, perhaps weeks.”
You are reassured. “What did you call me?’ you ask innocently.
“Achara – it is a name for you, it means ‘pretty angel’,” Tirin says with a gracious smile that is meant to say, “you are safe now.”
You blush from the compliment. “Thank you,” you say softly.
“Mai ben rai,” says Tirin. “That’s a handy phrase in Thai by the way – it means anything from “don’t mention it” to “it’s OK” to “don’t worry about it”.”
“How do you say thank you?” you ask.
The Thais beam. “As a girl you say ‘khorb khun kaa’.”
“Then khorb khun kaa for finding me in time!” you say.
You drive by a huge Buddhist temple complex whose exterior is entirely covered in gold. It is a stupefying sight, with rows upon rows of statues around the perimeter of the main building. “That is Wat Doi Suthep,” Kiet explains from the back as your jaw nearly drops at the magnificence of it.
You head into town and every so often, between low rise buildings, another massive temple will suddenly emerge around a corner. One is exceedingly delicate, with ornately painted walls and a separate chedi of stone that sweeps up into a golden spire. You guides tell you this is Wat Chiang Men – the oldest temple in the city.
And then you see another beautiful temple, this one like waves of stone piled up to the sky. “Wat Chedi Luang,” observes Tirin. You soon cross a river – the Mae Ping – and head into a more modern and spread out part of the city.
You are soon at a huge complex that you quickly understand to be the Ceramics factory. Once inside the gates of the immense grounds, with soothing trees in lining the street and low buildings housing the ceramics works, the car heads to the left toward a white washed building that is clearly the factory infirmary. “Monsieur Hainault will have the best care here,” Tirin says as the car pulls up to the front of the infirmary. Kiet and Daw help orderlies get Serge onto a canvas stretcher; he is whisked into the inside of the building. “There is little you can do for your friend now. Perhaps I could give you the tour of Sang Ka Lok, as intended by your uncle, as a way of taking your mind off such a terrible event as occurred earlier?”
You smile, and despite it somehow seeming wrong to leave Serge, you realize it is best if you check on him after he has had rest and attention. You agree to a tour.
Tirin walks your through the impressive kilns and sculpting wheels, showing you the myriad varieties of wares for which the factory is justly renowned. Your mind is still on your ordeal, though. You ask Tirin, “Do you know who those men were who attacked us today?”
Tirin pauses. “Although Thailand is prosperous, times are hard nearby. Men from Laos and Cambodia come across the border, especially in the north where the terrain is more rugged and where the ethnicities are more mixed. Here in Chiang Mai all sorts can mix freely without scrutiny. The men who attacked you are known brigands – bad men, who will hire themselves out for bad work. The question you should ask is: who hired them?”
You puzzle over that question through the rest of the tour. Who would have a reason to eliminate you, especially in a way that would seem like an accident? The only thing you can think of that would be worth going to that trouble would be Uncle Ned’s fortune!
All of a sudden it dawns on you – it is so obvious: nearly being sold into slavery in Hong Kong, the horrible attempted sacrifice at Hue , and now this crude attempt at eliminating you. Someone else must be in line for the fortune! But it can’t be a family member – Uncle Ned has no other family, and….
Osgoode. It’s so obvious now. The perfidious lawyer is behind it all! You suddenly feel very vulnerable, out in the wilds of Asia , your only protector (whom you have known for all of 48 hours) hospitalized, and an enemy able to assault you from a thousand miles away through a network of henchmen and ruthless mercenaries.
You turn to Tirin. “I think I know who is behind this – Uncle Ned’s lawyer, Osgoode.”
“That is bad,” your gracious Thai host replies. “You should not stay here for long. Osgoode was always a problem for us – he has many servants here.”
Your heart sinks. “What can I do?”
“You are not far from India now – British territory, and farther away from Osgoode. I know that Edward-kun did not entrust his factories in India to Osgoode, but ran them directly. I think you will be safer there.”
“And Serge?” you ask hopefully.
“Monsieur Hainault will have to stay here. He cannot move. Emma-kun, you must be brave. We can escort you to the airfield and get you out of here. I was meant to tell you that your uncle meant you to go from here to Chittagong , in Burma , where his assistant, Aung-Hla, will guide you. Meet him at the Great Mosque!”
“Thank you, Tirin-kun,” you say, picking up on the honorifics. You are led to a spacious if Spartan room inside the factory grounds. At least it’s safe, with thick walls and loyal personnel guarding you as you rest.
You have a delicious Thai meal that night: tom kha gai (chicken and coconut soup) , hor muk (steamed fish in banana leaves; duck jungle curry with sticky rice, pad puk ruam mit (mixed vegetables in soy sauce) and khao neow mu-muang (mango with sweet rice) for dessert. You eat eagerly after your latest tribulations, but are impressed with the emphasis on presentation – the meal in that respect is to your mind almost European.
You sleep like a log in the cool and pleasant air of the highlands. Refreshed, you check in on Serge after the morning. You thank him again for his rescuing you – twice. “Think nothing of it, mademoiselle – someone so fair will always be rescued, the universe requires it.” Serge groans as even this required effort. “But cherie, I can no longer escort you. You must make your way to Burma , and then to India proper, as Tirin suggests. You will be safer under British law.”
The next morning, a large contingent of personnel from the ceramics factory guides you to the air strip. They examine every inch of the De Havilland to make sure it has not been sabotaged; satisfied, they allow you to board it. You are once again in your sleek and tight fitting flying outfit, and for all your justified trepidation, you want to see this through. By now you are worried about Uncle Ned – perhaps he is in trouble, too?
The propeller of the De Havilland Tiger Moth begins to spin as the engine sputters to life, then emits a healthy, happy droning sound. Your companions remove the blocks form the aeroplane’s wheels. You wave to them as you taxi to the end of the air strip, and take off into a clear blue morning. You have a spectacular and uneventful flight over the lush mountains of the Shan States that form the border between Siam and Burma . In a few hours you cross over the watershed, and are once again in British air space, deep valleys of glittering blue streams cutting into verdant sharp hills and uplands . You relax a little – you are now in the territory of the Raj – Osgoode would hardly dare assault you now!
You descend into the lush and humid valley of the Irrawaddy, toward the white city of Mandalay for refueling. You sweep gracefully over the huge white stupas of the Sandamani Paya, a startlingly beautiful Buddhist complex set amidst deep green trees on the Mandalay Hills. You touch down with ease on a crystal clear day, and relax as your plane is refueled for the next stage of your journey.
You soon are ready to take off again, and it’s another trip over steep hills, as your course changes from northwest to almost due west, toward the coast of the Bay of Bengal . After a few enjoyable hours of flying, the mountains give way to a spectacular view of the littoral. At the edge of visibility, in a pink afternoon haze, you can make out the buildings and minarets of a great city – Chittagong – against the light blue of the Indian Ocean .
You land at the airfield outside Chittagong , where a prim Bengali is standing ready to greet you. He dressed more for the London Stock Exchange than rumble-tumble Chittagong – charcoal grey pin-stripe business suit, vest, bowler hat, and, incongruously, a black umbrella. There is not a cloud in the sky – just the haze of a hot afternoon.
“Aung Hla at your service, Miss Davies!” said the Bengali man. “Mr Nesbitt -- your Uncle Edward -- sent me to greet you!”
You smile, taking off your leather flying helmet and letting your long black hair cascade around your face and down your back. The delightful day flying, and – for once – finding the contact you expected at the airfield – makes you a bit giddy with a sense of achievement.
“Thank you for coming to the airfield,” you say, smiling. “I was told you were going to meet me at the Grand Mosque!”
Aung Hla is diminuative, several inches shorter than you, but wiry, with quick black eyes and an easy smile. “Ah, yes, but after all your tribulations, Mr Nesbitt said we should take no chances and bring you safely to him.”
Your heart leaps up at the thought of finally meeting dear Uncle Ned. “Is Uncle Ned in Chittagong ? Please, take me to him!”
“That I shall, Miss Davies!” Aung Hla replies briskly. “Please, this way. I will send assistant to bring your bags later.”
You follow Aung Hla’s lead as he takes you to a waiting car, another big black saloon, but a modern, proper 1931 Alvis 12/50 saloon. Aung-Hla sits in the passenger area next to you, as a driver turns the ignition and begins the drive into Chittagong .
You marvel at the busy city, with its maze of low buildings, endless series of tiny markets for fish, produce, and goods. The car often has to slow down for pedestrian and bicycle traffic as you wind your way into the city.
You approach a giant building complex, with onion shaped spiraled domes and red walls. This must be the Grand Mosque! ”Are we meeting my uncle there?” you ask.
“No, Miss Davies, sadly, you cannot enter the mosque dressed for flying,” Aung Hla says. “We will see Mr Nesbitt in his hillside home.”
“Oh, all right,” you say, a little disappointed that you won’t be able to enjoy the splendour of the impressive mosque. Out of the corner of your eye , as you pass near one entrance to the mosque, you see a tall Westerner, grey-haired, so very familiar. It’s Uncle Ned!
“Oh!”you exclaim. “Wait! There he is!”
“You must be mistaken, Miss Davies,” Aung Hla says calmly. “Mr Nesbitt is waiting for us at home.”
You turn around and look out the back. Uncle Ned sees the car go by, recognizes it, and sees you in the back! He starts waving frantically and tries to chase after your car!
“No! I am sure it is him! He was waving at the car to stop!” you say, more insistent now.
You turn to look at Aung Hla to reason with him. You are shocked to see he is holding a gun pointed straight at you!
“What is the meaning of this?” you exclaim.
“Apologies, Miss Davies. My employer wishes to see you,” the Bengali says.
“Your employer? Uncle Ned is your employer!”
“Not any more!” says Aung Hla. “Someone is paying a higher wage!”
“I demand that you let me go!” you say, indignant and also increasingly afraid.
Aung Hla smiles slowly and crookedly as the driver accelerates through the crowds. “You are coming with us!” he says. “Turn your back to me now, Miss Davies, and put your hands behind your back!”
Aung Hla’s menacing proddings soon convince you that resistance would be foolhardy in the extreme. You comply reluctantly, putting your hands behind your back where the villain can easily bind them. You feel strong cords being looped around your wrists, your shoulders sagging as you realize that once again you have fallen into a trap.
“Uncle Ned will stop you!” you vow defiantly, twisting your wrists pointlessly, testing your bonds and finding them tight and unyielding.
“I doubt that!” says the Bengali, chuckling as the car drives up in front of a freight area in the rear of the Chittagong train station. Unlike the passenger entrance in front, which is chaotic enough but at least a public space, the freight stalls in back resemble little more than an enormous loading dock, with a vast, labyrinthine open air market in goods legal and illegal spreading out from the rail platforms.
“What are you doing?” you ask, your voice quavering with alarm. “I demand that you let me g—ummmppphhhhffff!” Your plea is cut short as Aung Hla stuffs a wad of cloth in your mouth, filling it up with a stale taste of rough hemp and dust. He thrusts a scarf between your teeth and pulls the ends into a tight cleave, sealing the gag in. You feel the corners of your mouth pulled back as he tightens the cleave mercilessly.
“Mmpphhfff!” you beg, now frightened at the sinister intentions of your new captor. You try to kick as the car comes to a halt, hoping to make a desperate bid for help from the car. But Aung Hla is too fast for you, and pulls your legs up hard on the seat, forcing you into an almost reclining position as he ties your booted ankles together.
“Heh heh heh, no more trouble from you, Miss Davies!” he hisses as he knots your ankle bonds. You squirm, desperately but hopelessly, but the ropes holding you are far to strong and tight for you to have even the slightest chance of escape!
The driver opens the rear door to the saloon and spreads a luxurious Persian Qom rug on the ground in front of the door. The driver and Aung Hla quickly carry you out of the automobile and place you athwart the carpet at one end. They then start to roll you up! In an instant you are wrapped up in the carpet, unable to move at all, barely able to breathe!
You feel yourself being lifted and carried. You hear the squawking of the vendors outside the train station, then the incomprehensibly vague calls on the speakers of the stationmasters, then you know you are being lifted into a train compartment. Suddenly the raucous and confusing sounds and smells are gone. All is quiet. You feel yourself being placed on a floor. Then, without warning, the carpet is unceremoniously unwound and you are flung, bound and gagged, onto the floor of what must be a private car on a train!
Your eyes adjust to the light, after having been in the dark rolled up in the carpet for some time. You are in a sumptuously decorated room, with brocaded drapery over the window and oak paneling on the walls. Nautically themed oil paintings combine with Hindu silk screen prints to give a bizarrely exotic, though culturally hybrid, feel to the room. It is all very overblown, very out of date Anglo-Indian style of the Diamond Jubilee – sleek Art Deco has not seen the light of day here yet!
You have little time to assess the retro taste of your captors, for Aung Hla and the driver pull you up and drag you by the arms to a heavy chair bolted down on one heavy central support to the floor. The fiends take up more ropes, and quickly tie your shoulders and waist to the back of the chair. They also take your bound ankles, pull them back savagely, and lash them to the chair support. You glare at them for all the indignities you have endured.
Aung Hla nods to the driver, who departs the room. The traitor then turns to you, leaning in toward you, his hands on the arms of the chair. “Your Uncle Ned won’t save you, pretty little Emma Davies! You want to know why?”
You hear a whistle and feel the train start to move. You eyes open wide with alarm. Where are the fiends taking you?
“That’s right,” Aung Hla says. “We’re going far away from your uncle. He won’t even know what city you’re in. My employer has a special fate prepared for you!” The Bengali’s exact but accented diction lends extra menace to his threat.
“Mmmpphhff!” you say, squirming in your tight and unbreakable bonds.
“Those nice men in Chiang Mai did not betray you, Emma!” the villain says smugly. “They really thought I was trustworthy. I was going to abduct you in the Grand Mosque, but your uncle announced that he would make a surprise appearance – it seems he had heard of your perils and had decided to make sure you were safe in Chittagong . That meant a change of plans for me – so I met you at the airfield instead.”
You squirm some more, already knowing that escape is impossible. You mew into your gag, hoping that Aung Hla can be convinced to rejoin your side. Aung Hla grins evilly as you struggle, but your sad, pleading eyes and pathetic writhing seem not to affect him.
“I will leave you here, Miss Davies. My employer will surely want to see you soon. Don’t go wandering…hah hah hah hah!”
You glower as Aung Hla leaves the room. You hear the door lock. You resume your desperate struggles, but all you do is make the ropes bite into your delicate wrists. Your leather boots squeak as you tug and twist with yoru legs in futile attempts to free your ankles.
The train is now chugging along nicely – although the curtains are drawn, you must be out of the city now – on your way to a dubious destination.
You’ve got to find a way out! You look around the room, but there is no implement that could possibly be used to cut your way free. You tug firmly at your bonds, and try to tip the chair over with your body weight – anything to give you some hope of freedom. Nothing works. You slump in your chair, defeated and as helpless as ever!
The train maintains a steady clackety clack over the ramshackle rails of the Raj. You start to sob, dejected and hopeless.
After some time miserably tied to the chair, you hear the door unlock. In steps a tall bony man with a thin mustache – a man you recognize from Hong Kong: Osgoode!
“Good day, Miss Davies!” Osgoode said, pouring himself a cognac into a snifter and sitting deftly in another chair, admiring you in your captivity. “I’d offer you a drink, but…” he let his sentence die with a mocking smile. “Don’t you enjoy the romance of trains? The thrill of unknown destinations, exotic locales….”
You look into his beady eyes and see nothing but evil, avarice, and despite in them. You are chilled to the bone – you are utterly in the clutches of this unspeakable fiend! You look away, fighting back the urge to cry.
Osgoode continues. “You’re going to die, Emma. You know that, I hope. You’ve been lucky so far, but now – I will make sure of it personally – you are going to die.”
You shoot a look of frustration and rage and him and thrash in your bonds, squealing through your gag . The lawyer laughs as you exhaust yourself.
“Emma, your last voyage, currently underway, is up the Ganges Plain, toward New Delhi . We are going a little beyond Delhi , where we have a special feast awaiting you! Now, I am afraid we want you refreshed for your final appearance, so I think now is about the right time for a nap, don’t you think?”
You moan and shake your head, but Osgoode has a white rag ready, along with a bottle of chloroform. He soaks the rag, and clamps it over your nose and mouth. You squirm, trying to avoid the soporific fumes, but bound as you are you cannot resist for long. Soon he has the rag over your nose and mouth, you inhale as you must, and immediately begin to feel sleepy. In a matter of moments, you slump, unconscious, in the chair.
…
Your eyes flutter as you begin to awaken. You are outdoors. A soft breeze wafts across your body as it reclines on wicker of some kind. Your clothes shift gently in the cool, pleasant zephyr….You realize you are no longer in your flying outfit. Your leather jacket, jodhurs, and boots are gone. You are wearing something silk, something layered, soft – tight across the uppers arms and chest, flowing elsewhere. You look down. You are dressed in a beautiful violet coloured sari.
You try to get up. At that moment the pleasantness is gone, for you realize you are tightly bound, your arms over your head, your ankles tied together and also lashed down to the wicker cot – or frame. You are barefoot, save for small bells strapped like a bracelet around your ankles. The sari is so diaphanous you feel almost naked in places– silly, as the violet silk is quite opaque and your clothing both sensuous and modest.
You try to call for help, but you are tightly cleave gagged, as before. You look around -- and are dumbstruck at the vision to your left.
A vast courtyard in white marble surrounds an elongated rectangular pool. On the far side of the esplanade is the most famous building in Asia – the white marble walls, the delicate, domed architecture. All of a sudden it hits you – the location, the wicker, the reason for the sari.
You are tied to a funeral pyre in front of the Taj Mahal.
You start to squirm desperately, hoping the wicker is soft enough to bend or break. But your efforts are in vain. You are inextricably tied on top of a pile of wicker, firewood, and other combustibles.
You look to the right and see Osgoode climbing the ziggurat of wood atop which you are trapped. “Ah Emma, I have arranged a special celebration for you. You may know that in some Hindu families, when the husband dies, the wife is burned alive as part of his funeral. Ah, you say, but you are not married? A mere technicality. You see, I found a family where the wife, reasonably not wanting to be immolated, fled to Nepal . The family felt that they were dishonoured unless someone would be willing to take the wife’s place. I volunteered you, my dear!”
You squeal in horror and arch your back helplessly in more attempts to find a weakness in your bonds. But there is none!
“No one can save you now, Emma. You’ll be happy to know, the family thinks you’re prettier than the girl who fled. So you are advancing their karma. And of course, with you dead, I’ll get Ned’s money, so in a way you’re going to advance my karma, too!”
You look at Osgoode with desperate, pleading eyes. But the greedy lawyer merely wants to savour his victory.
“Ah, I think the procession is coming. Enjoy this quaint heathen ceremony. I know I will!”
You see a large solemn procession of Indians, men in saffron shirts and white trousers, each bearing lit torches. Weeping and wailing women follow them, all heading toward you….
Is this the end? Is Emma doomed to be a Hindu sacrifice? Stay turned for the answers to these burning questions!
Monday, June 22, 2009
Emma Davies and the Great Race - Chapter 4: Chiang Mai
You continue your fruitless struggles, lashed tightly to the pole, dressed in your fine white silk ao dai dress. You look on in horror as the two Vietnamese fiends who kidnapped you add more fuel to the fire under the pot they intend to boil you in alive. Gagged cruelly, you cannot even plead for your life, but moan pitiably in the cloth stuffed between your teeth.
The tall man looks you up and down with an evil leer on his face, then turns to the smaller man and says something incomprehensible in Vietnamese.
The tall man turns to you and says “Perhaps we let you sit down?” You nod sadly, terrified and unsuccessfully trying to suppress a sob, as the shorter man approaches you and unties your knees. You slump a little in your remaining bonds, weakened from the poor circulation afforded by being so tightly tied up for so long, then find you can slide down the pole a little. You sink until you are seated on the ground, your arms still painfully lashed behind your back and around the pole, your legs tucked under you and to the side, as demure as you can be under the horrifying circumstances. You are about to try to thank your evil captors through the gag when the smaller ones kneels down, yanks your feet cruelly behind you and ties your ankles savagely to the pole!
“We make you pose pretty for Crocodile God!” says the taller man, leering at you like one possessed. He looks into the large iron cistern. “Water almost boiling. We bring out crocodile now!” He jabbers at the smaller man in Vietnamese, and the smaller man walks over to a large pile of banana leaves at the edge of the clearing near the river. He pulls off the leaves to reveal an enormous bamboo cage, inside which is a huge crocodile that immediate lunges at the cage door, shaking the seemingly flimsy bars and making the smaller man recoil.
It’s all too horrible to be real, yet another test of your bonds reveals that you are not dreaming, but trapped and in very real peril. The taller man is dropping herbs and seasonings into the pot in some ghoulish and absurd culinary gesture. The crocodile opens and snaps its elongated jaws shut while it stares at you, as if it knows you are intended as its dinner! The tight and rough ropes are starting to crush the delicate fabric of your beautiful ao dai, You slump and sob pitiably as your terrible fate seems inevitable!
You twist a little in your bonds, not really in any serious attempt at escape, more to try to move one of your demonic captors to clemency. But they are busy finishing the unspeakable soup bouillon. Your terror rises as they finish their preparations and turn to you once more.
“Into soup you go now!” says the taller man. You shake your head furiously and moan “Nooo!” through your gag. The shorter man laughs and says something sounding harsh in Vietnamese, baring his teeth at you and making chomping gestures with his teeth in imitation of what the crocodile will do with your cooked flesh. You avert your gaze, turning your head away in horror, sobbing gently, your long black hair cascading over your face, wet from tears brought by the unbearable mix of anger, shame, and fear.
Both men approach you and start to untie those ropes that held you to the post. They leave your wrists and ankles firmly tied, despite the increasing discomfort of having your limbs so tightly bound, your circulation restricted for so long. Even if you could free yourself of the ropes, you would still be so weak and stiff you could not get far, let alone fight back.
They lift you up, the tall man taking you by the shoulders, the smaller man by the feet, and carry you toward the pot. Your eyes widen in horror as you are brought closer to the large iron bubbling pot! You flinch reflexively, twisting in vain in your bonds as they carry you to the brim of the pot.
They start to swing you in rhythm, clearly about to throw you into the boiling water! You try to scream, but the gag reduces your fearful cry to a muffled moan! You shut your eyes, terrified at what must come next….
“Put the girl down!” shouts a familiar voice. You open your eyes. It’s Serge Hainault, holding a pistol aimed at the taller man. Your two captors freeze, and no longer swing you toward the pot. The shorter man starts shouting at Serge – it sounds like swearing, even though it is Vietnamese you can’t understand. Serge takes one look at the shorter man, and without hesitating aims at him and shoots him between the eyes. The shorter man slumps, letting your feet drop to the ground as you recoil in fear form the gunshot.
“I said, put her down. Let her go, now!” Serge says to the taller man. Serge then yells at him in Vietnamese. The taller man, instead of obeying, grabs you and hold you in front of him with one hand around your slender waist, the other hand suddenly holding a sharp jungle knife at your throat!
“Drop gun or she die!” the taller man hisses.
“So help me -- you hurt her and I will subject you to more pain than is found in the death cults of Kali!” Serge retorts, still pointing the gun in your direction.
“Drop gun!” the taller man repeats, pushing the edge of the knife dangerously high and close to your windpipe. You sob and give the barest shake of your head, your eyes simply sayng “Save me!”
Serge hesitates, then lowers his gun to the ground. You sob in confusion and fear as your salvation seems to have been taken away again.
“Step away from gun!”
Serge complies, his hands in the air, then he says, “Now let her go!”
The taller man throws you roughly to the ground and lunges at Serge. A terrific struggle breaks out as Serge, unarmed, fights desperately to fend off the taller man’s knife attacks. You gasp as Serge is slashed savagely on the arm and narrowly avoids being stabbed in the gut. But you are helplessly tied and gagged, what can you do?
You crawl, as best you can, ruing the damage you are doing to the beautiful ao dai dress, toward the body of the small man. You are appalled by his corpse, but you fumble with your bound hands, suppressing your revulsion, until you get a hold of his knife, You start sawing frantically at your wrist bonds as the fight rages on.
You finally cut your wrists free, and grab the nkife in your hands to cut your ankles free. But you see a horrible development as the taller man has Serge on his back, about to slash his neck with his knife! Serge, hurt earlier by these thugs, seems to be losing! You cringe, afraid to get involved in this brutal contest. You hold the knife, paralyzed by fear and indecision.
Serge, with a last effort, gets his feet under his attacker and hurls him back. “Emma, the knife!” Serge springs toward you and grabs the knife from you as the taller man recovers and gets ready to pounce again. Serge throws his knife and scores a direct hit on your captor, felling him with a knife in the heart. You look away in horror at the gruesomeness of it all. Serge, realizing the man is dead, turns to you and tenderly removes your gag. “Emma!” he exclaims, caressing you sweetly, “are you all right?”
“I…I think so,:” you reply, burying your face in his shirt to conceal your shudders and tears.
“All right then, let’s get you out of here.” You look on as Serge gently unties your ankle bonds, freeing you at last. You put your arms around his neck for support as he lifts you to your feet. He seems to appreciate your trust, and your proximity, greatly. He gingerly helps you walk away from the clearing away from the site of your ordeal. You gradually regain circulation in your legs as you arrive at his car, parked a few hundred yards away.
“You came just in time,” you say as Serge helps you in the car.
“I shouldn’t have been out of your sight for a moment. I had no idea that the plot against you reached as far as here. Well, I can feel the lesson I have learned – ouch! – right here at the back of my skull!” Serge said, wincing as he felt the wound where he had been knocked out.
“Plot?” you say with a nervous gulp. “What plot?”
Serge looked up, his usual feline expression giving way to genuine concern for you. “It has to be more than coincidence that you have been attacked both in Hue and Hong Kong .” Serge starts the car and starts to drive back toward the tomb of Khai Dinh.You draw closer to Serge – he is your only clear friend on the far side of the world from home, with unknown enemies trying to do you in! “I suppose I should just go home,” you say dejectedly.
“I think that is unwise,” Serge replies. “You’d have to go back to Hong Kong , where we know for sure your enemies are waiting for you. I think you should continue – and I think I should come with you, at least part of the way, if you will have me as your…. protector.” You smile generously at Serge’s sweet offer and almost snuggle into him as he says he will protect you. “I would never let anything happen to you, Emma!” he says as he drives.
“All right, but where am I supposed to go next? I found Uncle Ned’s watch, but no clue where to go from here!” you exclaim.
“Edward would not abandon his favorite niece!” Serge says. “Try looking at the watch.”
You examine the watch – you haven’t had time to really look at it since your ordeal began. You open up the pocket watch, but there are no inscriptions or other clues at all on the inside cover. “Oh, it’s no use!” you say, still shaking from your close shave. You’re not really in the mood for puzzles right now.
“Don’t give up!” Serge says with a gentle prod with one hand as he steers with the other. “There should be a latch to open up the mechanism. All pocket watches have them; the manufacturer is usually engraved on the frame inside.”
You find the latch relatively quickly, and the body of the watch springs free from the back of the case. Your eye is caught by the intricate gears and wheels oscillating in the frame, but the golden frame is engraved as it is supposed to be: “Patek Philippe, Geneve, 1926 – pour Edouard Davies, cadeau de ses amis a Sang Ka Lok, Chiang Mai, Siam .”
You read the inscription to Serge. He whistles. “It was a gift to your uncle from friends at the famous Sang Ka Lok Ceramics Factory in Chiang Mai. A Patek Philippe special order – they must be good friends indeed! You don’t want to know how much that watch costs!”
You suddenly think the watch is heavier, now that you know how special it is. But that must be the next destination. “I think Uncle Ned wants me – wants us, I suppose – to go to Chiang Mai!” you say.
“Ah, a fascinating city up in the wilds of northern Thailand ! Now I am definitely coming with you!” Serge insists.
“That nice?” you ask.
“That dangerous,” Serge answers. “It is a frontier town. Smugglers and narcotics peddlers – although it is a very cultured place as well. But not a place for a young lady to be by herself. I know Edward, he must have planned for your being taken care of there. But given the other threats against you, I think we can’t be too careful from now on.”
You agree. But now, with the prospect of having a knowledgeable companion as a bodyguard, you feel your courage returning. By now Serge has cleared Khai Dihn and is you are well on your way back to Hue . Serge stops the car at a small, quaint building by a bend in the Huong River that sweeps close to the road. The building is painted green and red, with the distinctive sloping shingled roof of rustic Vietnamese architecture. A wide balustraded balcony leaning over the river gives away the secret that this is another restaurant. Serge gets out of the car, opens your door and helps you out and leads you inside. The hosts, lined up inside the front door, greet you with dignity, curious at your wearing of a traditional Vietnamese ao dai, but smiling.
You and Serge are seated at a table with a single red candle, overlooking a dreamy river sunset as wide-leaved banana trees and long-fronded bushes wave gently by the riverbank in the breeze. The menus come to you – all in incomprehensible Vietnamese.
“I will order for you!” Serge offers.
“No soup, please,” you joke, still shaken from your recent peril.
Serge smiles and agrees. “Vietnamese cuisine has a lot of soups in it – but under the circumstances….We’ll try some Cha Gio – those are Vietnamese spring rolls – and some Ga Xao Xa Ot – that’s a chicken and lemongrass curry….”
You start to realize you built up a bit of an appetite in your struggles today.
“Oh, and we’ll have to start with Cang Cua Bok Tom!” Serge exclaims excitedly.
“Of course!” you giggle with gentle sarcasm, not knowing what on earth he is talking about.
“Crab legs with shrimp stuffed in them, with garlic and chili seasoning.”
“Sounds delicious!”
“Always a – how do you say? – a crowd pleaser.”
You slowly start to relax as the courses are brought to you, along with a succulent Alsatian Gerwurtztraminer wine, whose sweet and almost spicy taste complements the Vietnamese meal. You and Serge talk about Uncle Ned, you recollections of him growing up, Serge’s partnerships with him, until it is time to go home. Serge takes you back to the car, and drives you back to Hue as night falls.
Once in Hue , Serge parks by the hotel and walks you back to your room. “No opening the door to strangers, d’accord?” Serge says, gently squeezing you by the shoulders to emphasize his point.
“All right…” you reply. Serge looks at you with devotion. You give him a peck on the cheek. “Thank you.”
“At your service, always, Mademoiselle…” he says, bowing elegantly and leaving you to undress and get a good night’s sleep.
You wake up the next morning, rested and ready for more flying. You get dressed once again in the smart flying kit you had before: brown leather jacket, tight white jodhpurs, and black knee boots. You pack and just as you finish you hear a knock at the door. “It’s me, Serge,” says the familiar voice through the door. You open it and Serge Haineault wheels in a full breakfast on a cart for the two of you into your room. You feast on the citrus fruit, the croissants and jam, and deep rich coffee as Serge lays out the trip for you.
“It is a little over 900 kilometres to Chiang Mai – that should take us under six hours of flying. We will have to refuel in Thakhek, on the Laotian/Siamese border, and then again in the colonial capital of Laos , Vientiane , and then on to Chiang Mai.” Serge pauses as he admires you in your tight-fitting flight gear. “You should consider a career as a pilot,” he says suggestively, as he looks you up and down in your tight jacket, form-fitting jodhpurs and boots.
You smile – Serge is back to normal, you think. “Well, we should be on our way,” you suggest. Serge agrees, and takes you to his car, in which he drives you back to the airstrip where you landed. The De Havilland is already out on the blocks on the airstrip, ready for you to take off. It is a slightly hazy day, but weather should still be fine up in the highlands over which you will fly.
Serge climbs in the front, allowing you to take the controls in the back. The Tiger Moth springs into action and takes off effortlessly from Hue . You fly up into the Laotian hills, their verdant rolling tapestry enthralling as you coast effortless above them. You refuel without incident at Thakhet, a very modest border town on the lazy Mekong River , far upriver from where it empties into the South China Sea below Saigon in Cochin , then proceed even further upland to Vientiane .
The latter is a major city, in many ways very un-Asian, monumentalist, like Paris in a weird, hinterland kind of way. Serge points out that the capital of Laos was sacked by the Siamese about a hundred years earlier, in 1828, and apart from the occasional temple most of the city’s architecture is decidedly French colonial. It is eerily quiet, and the silence is not content, but foreboding. There is something so wrecked about the place, something so broken in its spirit, that you want to get out as fast as you can. Serge concurs: “There is something disagreeable about this place. Chiang Mai has its dangers, but it is not so…alien.”
You take off from Vientiane as quickly as you can, heading now almost due west into the setting sun, over rugged hills which cast deep shadows into the lush valleys between them. You finally descend into a narrow valley of deep green vegetation, the tiny airstrip almost overrun by the waves of flowers and fragrant bushes.
“Chiang Mai is known for its flowers – the best in the world,” Serge offers. You think you are going to like this town after your recent troubles. The smells are indeed incredible, succulent beyond imagining, as if you could simply inhale and taste a mango or a tropical flower. You land easily enough in the clear mountain air, and steer the De Havilland for a perfect landing. You are really getting the hang of piloting, you think!
There is a large car waiting for you, an old-style 1925 Crossley, with its staid cylindrical carriage and narrow wheels on exposed shock absorbers. A delegation is waiting for you, several men dressed in clean work clothes, led by a man who, in his vest, bowler and top coat would not be out of place as a valet in an English country house “Miss Emma Davies?” the valet asks.
“Yes,” you answer suddenly, taken aback by the incongruity of it all. Serge comes up to you, carrying your and his suitcases.
“We are from Sang Ka Lok Ceramics. We are to escort you to a reception at the factory, where we would like to show you the most famous pottery in Indochina !”
It sounds good to you. Serge puts down his trunks and asks “How is Mr Long Na?”
“He is doing well, he hopes to see you,” says the valet.
“Ah, I see,” says Serge. “I think Miss Emma would like to be taken to her hotel room first, to freshen up…”
“So sorry, not possible, her uncle’s honourable friends have waited all day for her to arrive.”
You are puzzled by Serge’s tack. You feel fine, and it’s not like him to get sticky on protocol.
“J’insiste mon bon gars,” says Serge, as he pulls out a handgun and aims it over your shoulder straight at the valet.
“Serge!” you exclaim. “What is going on?”
“Long Na has been dead for a year,” Serge replies, not taking his eyes off the leader of this group of thugs. “N’est-ce pas, mes amis?” he calls to the group in front of you, who are raising their hands. You recede into Serge’s chest, horrified that you nearly fell into being kidnapped once again.
“Yes,” the valet hisses. “But you are no longer in Indochine, my French friend. In Thailand , you will find you have less privilege.”
“I have a gun. That is privilege enough.”
“So do we. We have more,” the valet responds. Then he calls out in Thai. Out of the trees come several more of his squad, all bearing rifles. “Now put down your weapon. We just want the girl.”
“You’ll have to kill me first!” Serge exclaims.
“As you wish,” the valet says, motioning with his finger and calling to the riflemen in Thai.
You hear the snick of rifle chambers locking. “No! Don’t shoot! Don’t hurt him!” You run forward, even as Serge says “Emma, no!” He is struck over the head with a rifle butt as the valet grabs you, spins you around, and quickly pins your arms behind your back.. You see Serge again on the ground, a nasty wound on the head in the exact same place as at Khai Dinh! “Oh Serge! Please!” you plead as you feel your wrists being tied behind your back. “Please don’t let him die!”
“I would worry more about your own future, dear little Emma!” the valet says with an evil hissing whisper in your ear. “Heh heh heh..” he starts to chuckle as he pulls the ropes tight. His goon squad also start to laugh at your helplessness.
“What? What are you going to do with me?” you ask with trepidation.
“Quiet, or I shoot you now!” says the valet. With more shouts in Thai they bundle you roughly into the old Crossley 25, then tie your booted ankles with savage tightness. Even protected by the leather, you feel the circulation being cut by their diabolical bonds.
“Help! Help!” you scream with all your breath in hopes of attracting attention , but soon one of the goons in the back of the Crossley handgags you, muffling your desperate cries! “I’m being kidna-mmffff!” is all you can say before a sweaty palm covers your mouth. One of the goons removes a sweaty necktie and cruelly stuffs it between your lips, almost making you retch, so far back doe sit force your tongue. “Mmmpphhffff!” you whimper, looking at your captors with sad eyes as the engine of the Crossley is cranked up, and you start a bone-jarring ride to an unknown destination.
“Pretty girl,” says one of the goons in the back in heavily accented English as he brushes your black hair away from your face. There is no mercy, only evil intent in his voice as he compliments you, and you look at him with impotent fury.
“Ha ha ha, she not like you U Nol!” says another goon as the car jostles across obviously pitted dirt roads. All you can see from the floor of the car are trees and hills – it is clear you are not going to Chiang Mai town. You are heading uphill, you know that.
“Maybe she like me better?” says the second goon, his fat unpleasant face suddenly intruding in your field of vision. U Nol pushes him back, and it is not clear whether they are joking or if they are about to fight over you.
“No matter!” says the valet from the front, in a commanding voice that tells them both to stop it. “Her dating career is at an end.”
Your blood curdles at his words. What horrible fate do these criminals have in store for you?
The villains eventually bring the rickety old car to a halt, and they pile out of it. Two carry you, one by your shoulders, one your bound ankles, and carry you from the car. You are in a wilderness of huge tangled trees and thick shrubs. You hear running water nearby. You look over your shoulder, and you see a fast moving river in a shallow, rocky ravine. There is a small canoe-like boat at the riverbank.
More shouts in Thai instruct the goons to place you in the coracle. You struggle as best you can but they tie you down to crossbeams in the boat, so that you can’t even sit up. All you can do is stare up at the sky, and see the deep green canopy of trees whose crowns are dozens of feet above you. You look with a mix of fear, anger and delicate hurt at the goons as they lash you tightly to the inside of the canoe. You writhe and fuss, twisting and turning, but soon you discover that you are quite inextricably bound.
“You are going to get a first hand view of Huai Kaew Waterfall, Emma Davies!” says the valet with a sneer. “They are not the tallest waterfalls in the world, but they are fast with deadly rocks in the middle of them. They will prove quite fatal to as delicate a flower as you!”
You start to sob, so stunned by the sudden reversal in your fortunes. You arch your back to make one more attempt to loosen your bonds, only to meet a derisive howl of laughter from the goons who bound you.
“Struggle all you want, Emma! This time there is no escape for you!” the valet says as the goons push the little boat into the stream. You shake your head “no!” but your protests are of no use! You are aimed headfirst downstream!
You see the goons by the riverbank recede as you are carried helplessly by the current. In the distance ahead of you, you begin to hear the sounds of rapids! You strain some more in your bonds, looking down at your leather jacket, now crisscrossed with brown scratchy hemp, strapping your torso down to the coracle, your skintight jodhpurs, more ropes digging into them above your knees, and your black leather boots, tied at the ankles. You tug at your wrists, but the ropes merely bite into your skin to remind you that escape is impossible!
The sounds of the rapids grow louder. In your current position, you can’t see how close the deadly waterfalls are, your thoughts of dread amplified by just not knowing when the end will come! You try to call out, but your filthy gag stifles your cry, even if there were anyone to hear you!
It looks hopeless!
The tall man looks you up and down with an evil leer on his face, then turns to the smaller man and says something incomprehensible in Vietnamese.
The tall man turns to you and says “Perhaps we let you sit down?” You nod sadly, terrified and unsuccessfully trying to suppress a sob, as the shorter man approaches you and unties your knees. You slump a little in your remaining bonds, weakened from the poor circulation afforded by being so tightly tied up for so long, then find you can slide down the pole a little. You sink until you are seated on the ground, your arms still painfully lashed behind your back and around the pole, your legs tucked under you and to the side, as demure as you can be under the horrifying circumstances. You are about to try to thank your evil captors through the gag when the smaller ones kneels down, yanks your feet cruelly behind you and ties your ankles savagely to the pole!
“We make you pose pretty for Crocodile God!” says the taller man, leering at you like one possessed. He looks into the large iron cistern. “Water almost boiling. We bring out crocodile now!” He jabbers at the smaller man in Vietnamese, and the smaller man walks over to a large pile of banana leaves at the edge of the clearing near the river. He pulls off the leaves to reveal an enormous bamboo cage, inside which is a huge crocodile that immediate lunges at the cage door, shaking the seemingly flimsy bars and making the smaller man recoil.
It’s all too horrible to be real, yet another test of your bonds reveals that you are not dreaming, but trapped and in very real peril. The taller man is dropping herbs and seasonings into the pot in some ghoulish and absurd culinary gesture. The crocodile opens and snaps its elongated jaws shut while it stares at you, as if it knows you are intended as its dinner! The tight and rough ropes are starting to crush the delicate fabric of your beautiful ao dai, You slump and sob pitiably as your terrible fate seems inevitable!
You twist a little in your bonds, not really in any serious attempt at escape, more to try to move one of your demonic captors to clemency. But they are busy finishing the unspeakable soup bouillon. Your terror rises as they finish their preparations and turn to you once more.
“Into soup you go now!” says the taller man. You shake your head furiously and moan “Nooo!” through your gag. The shorter man laughs and says something sounding harsh in Vietnamese, baring his teeth at you and making chomping gestures with his teeth in imitation of what the crocodile will do with your cooked flesh. You avert your gaze, turning your head away in horror, sobbing gently, your long black hair cascading over your face, wet from tears brought by the unbearable mix of anger, shame, and fear.
Both men approach you and start to untie those ropes that held you to the post. They leave your wrists and ankles firmly tied, despite the increasing discomfort of having your limbs so tightly bound, your circulation restricted for so long. Even if you could free yourself of the ropes, you would still be so weak and stiff you could not get far, let alone fight back.
They lift you up, the tall man taking you by the shoulders, the smaller man by the feet, and carry you toward the pot. Your eyes widen in horror as you are brought closer to the large iron bubbling pot! You flinch reflexively, twisting in vain in your bonds as they carry you to the brim of the pot.
They start to swing you in rhythm, clearly about to throw you into the boiling water! You try to scream, but the gag reduces your fearful cry to a muffled moan! You shut your eyes, terrified at what must come next….
“Put the girl down!” shouts a familiar voice. You open your eyes. It’s Serge Hainault, holding a pistol aimed at the taller man. Your two captors freeze, and no longer swing you toward the pot. The shorter man starts shouting at Serge – it sounds like swearing, even though it is Vietnamese you can’t understand. Serge takes one look at the shorter man, and without hesitating aims at him and shoots him between the eyes. The shorter man slumps, letting your feet drop to the ground as you recoil in fear form the gunshot.
“I said, put her down. Let her go, now!” Serge says to the taller man. Serge then yells at him in Vietnamese. The taller man, instead of obeying, grabs you and hold you in front of him with one hand around your slender waist, the other hand suddenly holding a sharp jungle knife at your throat!
“Drop gun or she die!” the taller man hisses.
“So help me -- you hurt her and I will subject you to more pain than is found in the death cults of Kali!” Serge retorts, still pointing the gun in your direction.
“Drop gun!” the taller man repeats, pushing the edge of the knife dangerously high and close to your windpipe. You sob and give the barest shake of your head, your eyes simply sayng “Save me!”
Serge hesitates, then lowers his gun to the ground. You sob in confusion and fear as your salvation seems to have been taken away again.
“Step away from gun!”
Serge complies, his hands in the air, then he says, “Now let her go!”
The taller man throws you roughly to the ground and lunges at Serge. A terrific struggle breaks out as Serge, unarmed, fights desperately to fend off the taller man’s knife attacks. You gasp as Serge is slashed savagely on the arm and narrowly avoids being stabbed in the gut. But you are helplessly tied and gagged, what can you do?
You crawl, as best you can, ruing the damage you are doing to the beautiful ao dai dress, toward the body of the small man. You are appalled by his corpse, but you fumble with your bound hands, suppressing your revulsion, until you get a hold of his knife, You start sawing frantically at your wrist bonds as the fight rages on.
You finally cut your wrists free, and grab the nkife in your hands to cut your ankles free. But you see a horrible development as the taller man has Serge on his back, about to slash his neck with his knife! Serge, hurt earlier by these thugs, seems to be losing! You cringe, afraid to get involved in this brutal contest. You hold the knife, paralyzed by fear and indecision.
Serge, with a last effort, gets his feet under his attacker and hurls him back. “Emma, the knife!” Serge springs toward you and grabs the knife from you as the taller man recovers and gets ready to pounce again. Serge throws his knife and scores a direct hit on your captor, felling him with a knife in the heart. You look away in horror at the gruesomeness of it all. Serge, realizing the man is dead, turns to you and tenderly removes your gag. “Emma!” he exclaims, caressing you sweetly, “are you all right?”
“I…I think so,:” you reply, burying your face in his shirt to conceal your shudders and tears.
“All right then, let’s get you out of here.” You look on as Serge gently unties your ankle bonds, freeing you at last. You put your arms around his neck for support as he lifts you to your feet. He seems to appreciate your trust, and your proximity, greatly. He gingerly helps you walk away from the clearing away from the site of your ordeal. You gradually regain circulation in your legs as you arrive at his car, parked a few hundred yards away.
“You came just in time,” you say as Serge helps you in the car.
“I shouldn’t have been out of your sight for a moment. I had no idea that the plot against you reached as far as here. Well, I can feel the lesson I have learned – ouch! – right here at the back of my skull!” Serge said, wincing as he felt the wound where he had been knocked out.
“Plot?” you say with a nervous gulp. “What plot?”
Serge looked up, his usual feline expression giving way to genuine concern for you. “It has to be more than coincidence that you have been attacked both in Hue and Hong Kong .” Serge starts the car and starts to drive back toward the tomb of Khai Dinh.You draw closer to Serge – he is your only clear friend on the far side of the world from home, with unknown enemies trying to do you in! “I suppose I should just go home,” you say dejectedly.
“I think that is unwise,” Serge replies. “You’d have to go back to Hong Kong , where we know for sure your enemies are waiting for you. I think you should continue – and I think I should come with you, at least part of the way, if you will have me as your…. protector.” You smile generously at Serge’s sweet offer and almost snuggle into him as he says he will protect you. “I would never let anything happen to you, Emma!” he says as he drives.
“All right, but where am I supposed to go next? I found Uncle Ned’s watch, but no clue where to go from here!” you exclaim.
“Edward would not abandon his favorite niece!” Serge says. “Try looking at the watch.”
You examine the watch – you haven’t had time to really look at it since your ordeal began. You open up the pocket watch, but there are no inscriptions or other clues at all on the inside cover. “Oh, it’s no use!” you say, still shaking from your close shave. You’re not really in the mood for puzzles right now.
“Don’t give up!” Serge says with a gentle prod with one hand as he steers with the other. “There should be a latch to open up the mechanism. All pocket watches have them; the manufacturer is usually engraved on the frame inside.”
You find the latch relatively quickly, and the body of the watch springs free from the back of the case. Your eye is caught by the intricate gears and wheels oscillating in the frame, but the golden frame is engraved as it is supposed to be: “Patek Philippe, Geneve, 1926 – pour Edouard Davies, cadeau de ses amis a Sang Ka Lok, Chiang Mai, Siam .”
You read the inscription to Serge. He whistles. “It was a gift to your uncle from friends at the famous Sang Ka Lok Ceramics Factory in Chiang Mai. A Patek Philippe special order – they must be good friends indeed! You don’t want to know how much that watch costs!”
You suddenly think the watch is heavier, now that you know how special it is. But that must be the next destination. “I think Uncle Ned wants me – wants us, I suppose – to go to Chiang Mai!” you say.
“Ah, a fascinating city up in the wilds of northern Thailand ! Now I am definitely coming with you!” Serge insists.
“That nice?” you ask.
“That dangerous,” Serge answers. “It is a frontier town. Smugglers and narcotics peddlers – although it is a very cultured place as well. But not a place for a young lady to be by herself. I know Edward, he must have planned for your being taken care of there. But given the other threats against you, I think we can’t be too careful from now on.”
You agree. But now, with the prospect of having a knowledgeable companion as a bodyguard, you feel your courage returning. By now Serge has cleared Khai Dihn and is you are well on your way back to Hue . Serge stops the car at a small, quaint building by a bend in the Huong River that sweeps close to the road. The building is painted green and red, with the distinctive sloping shingled roof of rustic Vietnamese architecture. A wide balustraded balcony leaning over the river gives away the secret that this is another restaurant. Serge gets out of the car, opens your door and helps you out and leads you inside. The hosts, lined up inside the front door, greet you with dignity, curious at your wearing of a traditional Vietnamese ao dai, but smiling.
You and Serge are seated at a table with a single red candle, overlooking a dreamy river sunset as wide-leaved banana trees and long-fronded bushes wave gently by the riverbank in the breeze. The menus come to you – all in incomprehensible Vietnamese.
“I will order for you!” Serge offers.
“No soup, please,” you joke, still shaken from your recent peril.
Serge smiles and agrees. “Vietnamese cuisine has a lot of soups in it – but under the circumstances….We’ll try some Cha Gio – those are Vietnamese spring rolls – and some Ga Xao Xa Ot – that’s a chicken and lemongrass curry….”
You start to realize you built up a bit of an appetite in your struggles today.
“Oh, and we’ll have to start with Cang Cua Bok Tom!” Serge exclaims excitedly.
“Of course!” you giggle with gentle sarcasm, not knowing what on earth he is talking about.
“Crab legs with shrimp stuffed in them, with garlic and chili seasoning.”
“Sounds delicious!”
“Always a – how do you say? – a crowd pleaser.”
You slowly start to relax as the courses are brought to you, along with a succulent Alsatian Gerwurtztraminer wine, whose sweet and almost spicy taste complements the Vietnamese meal. You and Serge talk about Uncle Ned, you recollections of him growing up, Serge’s partnerships with him, until it is time to go home. Serge takes you back to the car, and drives you back to Hue as night falls.
Once in Hue , Serge parks by the hotel and walks you back to your room. “No opening the door to strangers, d’accord?” Serge says, gently squeezing you by the shoulders to emphasize his point.
“All right…” you reply. Serge looks at you with devotion. You give him a peck on the cheek. “Thank you.”
“At your service, always, Mademoiselle…” he says, bowing elegantly and leaving you to undress and get a good night’s sleep.
You wake up the next morning, rested and ready for more flying. You get dressed once again in the smart flying kit you had before: brown leather jacket, tight white jodhpurs, and black knee boots. You pack and just as you finish you hear a knock at the door. “It’s me, Serge,” says the familiar voice through the door. You open it and Serge Haineault wheels in a full breakfast on a cart for the two of you into your room. You feast on the citrus fruit, the croissants and jam, and deep rich coffee as Serge lays out the trip for you.
“It is a little over 900 kilometres to Chiang Mai – that should take us under six hours of flying. We will have to refuel in Thakhek, on the Laotian/Siamese border, and then again in the colonial capital of Laos , Vientiane , and then on to Chiang Mai.” Serge pauses as he admires you in your tight-fitting flight gear. “You should consider a career as a pilot,” he says suggestively, as he looks you up and down in your tight jacket, form-fitting jodhpurs and boots.
You smile – Serge is back to normal, you think. “Well, we should be on our way,” you suggest. Serge agrees, and takes you to his car, in which he drives you back to the airstrip where you landed. The De Havilland is already out on the blocks on the airstrip, ready for you to take off. It is a slightly hazy day, but weather should still be fine up in the highlands over which you will fly.
Serge climbs in the front, allowing you to take the controls in the back. The Tiger Moth springs into action and takes off effortlessly from Hue . You fly up into the Laotian hills, their verdant rolling tapestry enthralling as you coast effortless above them. You refuel without incident at Thakhet, a very modest border town on the lazy Mekong River , far upriver from where it empties into the South China Sea below Saigon in Cochin , then proceed even further upland to Vientiane .
The latter is a major city, in many ways very un-Asian, monumentalist, like Paris in a weird, hinterland kind of way. Serge points out that the capital of Laos was sacked by the Siamese about a hundred years earlier, in 1828, and apart from the occasional temple most of the city’s architecture is decidedly French colonial. It is eerily quiet, and the silence is not content, but foreboding. There is something so wrecked about the place, something so broken in its spirit, that you want to get out as fast as you can. Serge concurs: “There is something disagreeable about this place. Chiang Mai has its dangers, but it is not so…alien.”
You take off from Vientiane as quickly as you can, heading now almost due west into the setting sun, over rugged hills which cast deep shadows into the lush valleys between them. You finally descend into a narrow valley of deep green vegetation, the tiny airstrip almost overrun by the waves of flowers and fragrant bushes.
“Chiang Mai is known for its flowers – the best in the world,” Serge offers. You think you are going to like this town after your recent troubles. The smells are indeed incredible, succulent beyond imagining, as if you could simply inhale and taste a mango or a tropical flower. You land easily enough in the clear mountain air, and steer the De Havilland for a perfect landing. You are really getting the hang of piloting, you think!
There is a large car waiting for you, an old-style 1925 Crossley, with its staid cylindrical carriage and narrow wheels on exposed shock absorbers. A delegation is waiting for you, several men dressed in clean work clothes, led by a man who, in his vest, bowler and top coat would not be out of place as a valet in an English country house “Miss Emma Davies?” the valet asks.
“Yes,” you answer suddenly, taken aback by the incongruity of it all. Serge comes up to you, carrying your and his suitcases.
“We are from Sang Ka Lok Ceramics. We are to escort you to a reception at the factory, where we would like to show you the most famous pottery in Indochina !”
It sounds good to you. Serge puts down his trunks and asks “How is Mr Long Na?”
“He is doing well, he hopes to see you,” says the valet.
“Ah, I see,” says Serge. “I think Miss Emma would like to be taken to her hotel room first, to freshen up…”
“So sorry, not possible, her uncle’s honourable friends have waited all day for her to arrive.”
You are puzzled by Serge’s tack. You feel fine, and it’s not like him to get sticky on protocol.
“J’insiste mon bon gars,” says Serge, as he pulls out a handgun and aims it over your shoulder straight at the valet.
“Serge!” you exclaim. “What is going on?”
“Long Na has been dead for a year,” Serge replies, not taking his eyes off the leader of this group of thugs. “N’est-ce pas, mes amis?” he calls to the group in front of you, who are raising their hands. You recede into Serge’s chest, horrified that you nearly fell into being kidnapped once again.
“Yes,” the valet hisses. “But you are no longer in Indochine, my French friend. In Thailand , you will find you have less privilege.”
“I have a gun. That is privilege enough.”
“So do we. We have more,” the valet responds. Then he calls out in Thai. Out of the trees come several more of his squad, all bearing rifles. “Now put down your weapon. We just want the girl.”
“You’ll have to kill me first!” Serge exclaims.
“As you wish,” the valet says, motioning with his finger and calling to the riflemen in Thai.
You hear the snick of rifle chambers locking. “No! Don’t shoot! Don’t hurt him!” You run forward, even as Serge says “Emma, no!” He is struck over the head with a rifle butt as the valet grabs you, spins you around, and quickly pins your arms behind your back.. You see Serge again on the ground, a nasty wound on the head in the exact same place as at Khai Dinh! “Oh Serge! Please!” you plead as you feel your wrists being tied behind your back. “Please don’t let him die!”
“I would worry more about your own future, dear little Emma!” the valet says with an evil hissing whisper in your ear. “Heh heh heh..” he starts to chuckle as he pulls the ropes tight. His goon squad also start to laugh at your helplessness.
“What? What are you going to do with me?” you ask with trepidation.
“Quiet, or I shoot you now!” says the valet. With more shouts in Thai they bundle you roughly into the old Crossley 25, then tie your booted ankles with savage tightness. Even protected by the leather, you feel the circulation being cut by their diabolical bonds.
“Help! Help!” you scream with all your breath in hopes of attracting attention , but soon one of the goons in the back of the Crossley handgags you, muffling your desperate cries! “I’m being kidna-mmffff!” is all you can say before a sweaty palm covers your mouth. One of the goons removes a sweaty necktie and cruelly stuffs it between your lips, almost making you retch, so far back doe sit force your tongue. “Mmmpphhffff!” you whimper, looking at your captors with sad eyes as the engine of the Crossley is cranked up, and you start a bone-jarring ride to an unknown destination.
“Pretty girl,” says one of the goons in the back in heavily accented English as he brushes your black hair away from your face. There is no mercy, only evil intent in his voice as he compliments you, and you look at him with impotent fury.
“Ha ha ha, she not like you U Nol!” says another goon as the car jostles across obviously pitted dirt roads. All you can see from the floor of the car are trees and hills – it is clear you are not going to Chiang Mai town. You are heading uphill, you know that.
“Maybe she like me better?” says the second goon, his fat unpleasant face suddenly intruding in your field of vision. U Nol pushes him back, and it is not clear whether they are joking or if they are about to fight over you.
“No matter!” says the valet from the front, in a commanding voice that tells them both to stop it. “Her dating career is at an end.”
Your blood curdles at his words. What horrible fate do these criminals have in store for you?
The villains eventually bring the rickety old car to a halt, and they pile out of it. Two carry you, one by your shoulders, one your bound ankles, and carry you from the car. You are in a wilderness of huge tangled trees and thick shrubs. You hear running water nearby. You look over your shoulder, and you see a fast moving river in a shallow, rocky ravine. There is a small canoe-like boat at the riverbank.
More shouts in Thai instruct the goons to place you in the coracle. You struggle as best you can but they tie you down to crossbeams in the boat, so that you can’t even sit up. All you can do is stare up at the sky, and see the deep green canopy of trees whose crowns are dozens of feet above you. You look with a mix of fear, anger and delicate hurt at the goons as they lash you tightly to the inside of the canoe. You writhe and fuss, twisting and turning, but soon you discover that you are quite inextricably bound.
“You are going to get a first hand view of Huai Kaew Waterfall, Emma Davies!” says the valet with a sneer. “They are not the tallest waterfalls in the world, but they are fast with deadly rocks in the middle of them. They will prove quite fatal to as delicate a flower as you!”
You start to sob, so stunned by the sudden reversal in your fortunes. You arch your back to make one more attempt to loosen your bonds, only to meet a derisive howl of laughter from the goons who bound you.
“Struggle all you want, Emma! This time there is no escape for you!” the valet says as the goons push the little boat into the stream. You shake your head “no!” but your protests are of no use! You are aimed headfirst downstream!
You see the goons by the riverbank recede as you are carried helplessly by the current. In the distance ahead of you, you begin to hear the sounds of rapids! You strain some more in your bonds, looking down at your leather jacket, now crisscrossed with brown scratchy hemp, strapping your torso down to the coracle, your skintight jodhpurs, more ropes digging into them above your knees, and your black leather boots, tied at the ankles. You tug at your wrists, but the ropes merely bite into your skin to remind you that escape is impossible!
The sounds of the rapids grow louder. In your current position, you can’t see how close the deadly waterfalls are, your thoughts of dread amplified by just not knowing when the end will come! You try to call out, but your filthy gag stifles your cry, even if there were anyone to hear you!
It looks hopeless!
Friday, June 19, 2009
Emma Davies and the Great Race - Chapter 3: Indochine
(Thought I would add a few photos to give some sense of the settingof this ongoing story. The white dress on the woman is an ao dai, a traditional dress of Vietnam and to me one of the most graceful garments ever designed. The other phot is of Khai Dinh, near the city of Hue, and the locale for this chapter...)
A taxi arranged by the hotel conveys you to the airfield. You are already familiar with planes, so you know the De Havilland will not carry all your weighty trunks from the steamship. You have packed light – just one evening dress in case an occasion requires it, and more rugged clothes for solo air travel and possible trips outside of cities. You of course bring makeup – some things are essential even at the end of the earth!
You arrive at the airfield, and as promised your uncle has left a glorious new De Havilland Tiger Moth biplane, its wired wings taut when viewed head on, but the airfoils as shapely as lips in profile. The hanger staff help you load your bag into the front seat as you climb up to the pilot’s seat behind. You check your instruments as the personnel strap down your bags, kick the blocks from the tires, and start to pull your plane out into the sunlight. You find the maps promised on the side of the cockpit, by your knees,
Weather is forecast to be sunny and calm throughout your flight path today. It should be a glorious trip. The hangar crew point your aeroplane at the top of the new cement runway. You put on your goggles and give them a thumbs up. They reach up and spin the propeller as hard as they can, cranking up the 165 hp Gypsy 1C engine. The loud buzz of the engine thrills you as you embark on your first real international solo flight!
You accelerate down the runway until the wheels of the Tiger Moth leave the ground. Your soar into the azure morning sky and get the most glorious view of the necklace of little islands that grace the Hong Kong, Macao , and the estuary of the Si Kiang . You then bank and head west south-west, hugging the south China coast. Your plane only has a range of 275 miles, and this 800 mile flight is going to take you most of the day.
You have a jaunty flight, refueling at a lonely spot at the end of Kwangxi province, then across to Hainan island, refueling just before crossing the strait and then once again taking in all the fuel you can at the southwestern end of the island for the long ride across the Gulf of Tongking . With the sun shining, you have no trouble staying on course, the biggest danger in the crossing, for the distance to the coast of Vietnam is uncomfortably close to the maximum range of the plane.
But on such a good day, the risks are small. You fly smoothly over the Gulf, and catch sight of the lush coast of French Indochina – Viet Nam . You left Hong Kong at 7 AM sharp. It is now late in the afternoon. But at least you can get a wonderful cup of Vietnamese coffee in Hue tonight! The shore is lush fronds of palms, a deep green everywhere that makes the most beautiful gardens you’ve ever seen pale in comparison. For all the jungle-like flora, the land looks strangely fragile.
With the sun setting over the hills that rise up not too far from the coast, you approach a broad clearing with some oddly out-of place buildings clearly designed by French architects. You descend and land at the airfield at Hue .
A tall smartly dressed man in a light cloloured suit and a snap-brimmed hat greets your plane. He gallantly offers his hand as you clamber out of the cockpit and climb down to the ground – and not so gallantly looks you up and down quite audaciously, letting you know he likes what he sees.
“Bonsoir Mademoiselle Davies – I am Serge Hainault, I hope your uncle has spoken of me?” he says.
“He wrote of you, Monsieur Hainault. Thank you for greeting me.”
“Ah, the pleasure is mine. My, but you make pilot clothes quite fashionable,” he says saucily as he admires you in your tight fitting jacket, jodhpurs, and boots.
You wonder what your uncle was thinking by allowing this man to be your guide. But maybe he’s just French – suggestive but harmless. “How do you know Uncle Ned?” you ask, to find out a little more about him.
“Ah, Edward, he and I are partners in the tea business here,” Serge says as he gets up on the place, unstraps your bags and lifts them out of the plane to the ground. “Did your uncle ever mention East Asia Tea Exporters?”
“Yes, he did.”
“Well, that is our project together. But now I am supposed to show you Hue and be your guide. Please, come with me! I have already arranged for storage of your plane overnight.” Sure enough, airfield workers are busy taking the plane into a hanger and battening it down until you depart.
Serge guides you to a waiting black car with a driver. He opens your door and, after helping you in, puts your bag in the boot and then sits next to you. A louche he may be but he is polite, you think. The driver heads off over the broken dirt road. You are jostled slightly on the bumpy road but the ride is not too bad. You drive through thick tropical forest that alternate with marshes and rice paddies. The road improves as you come closer to a great river, the Huong. All the names of the towns are romantically exotic: Lam Mai, Quang Xuien, Phu Vang… You are heading into the hills inland, and as the land starts to undulate slightly it becomes clear you are getting closer to a major city.
When the car finally bursts into Hue, the sun has set and the city emerges as a galaxy of candle lights, coloured paper lanterns, their radiance bouncing off the tranquil waters of the bending, iridescent Huong River. Shadows are cast by venerable stone buildings, dark grey old pre-colonial Viet structures, and some flimsier, but no less grand, white wooden colonial palaces, with great verandas that encircle them. You occasionally pass by huge temples and ruins of old palaces.
“What do you think of Hue ?” Serge asks.
“It’s beautiful,” you answer.
“Yes, this was the capital of the Nguyens three hundred years ago. It remains Indochina ’s most beautiful city. Hue is renowned for its canals, its gracefulness, its balance.”
“It merits that,” you agree. As you pass you notice the people – men and women dressed traditionally, but elegantly, in fine silks. The women in particular are somehow—different – they seem not to walk but glide across the streets as if floating above the ground. You are fascinated by the exotic beauty of it all.
Serge notices your absorption. “ Hue also has a reputation for having the most beautiful women in Indochina ,” Serge offers just slightly salaciously. “As you can see they take that reputation quite proudly and seriously.” Then, with heretofore unseen humility, he says very softly. “I think you fit right in, if I may say it.”
You are pleased not just by his compliment but by the sudden kindness with which he offered it. “Why, thank you,” you say.
“Are you hungry for dinner?” Serge asks.
“I am famished!”
“Well, you are in French territory now, so you will eat well!”
“But I must change first!” you protest.
“Nonsense! I am client de la maison at a place nearby. They will not insist on evening dress, especially when I describe how far you have come!”
You agree and are taken to a lovely, quiet restaurant right on the embankments of the river. Little lights are hung all around the mahogany room. A delicious meal is offered, a split of French and Viet dishes, with not just the tastes you are used to but pungent coriander, ginger, and lemongrass. After your long day the meal is heavenly!
Serge explains over the meal that you have been given a room in the Dong Da Hotel right in the centre of the city. “You’ll get a good night’s rest then we’ll head out to the tomb of Khai Dihn tomorrow. It’s a popular place to visit.”
“Is it creepy?” you ask.
“No! Not at all – it is majestic!”
Serge takes you to your hotel, translates for you to get you registered, then has a porter bring your bags up to the room. “Good night, Mademoiselle Emma. I shall be here at a civilized hour tomorrow, say a lovely outdoor breakfast at 10?”
“That would be welcomed,” you smile, eager to catch some sleep. You get to your room, not noticing the two men in the shadows who are watching you in the lobby from behind their newspapers. You are too tired to notice such things right now -- your ordeal in Hong Kong a distant memory. In your room your windows are open to let in the soft night breeze. You are lulled by the tropical birds' songs and crickets’chirps, and you drift off to sleep quickly, looking forward to your adventure tomorrow.
+++
The next morning you are awakened by a knock on your door. You put on your robe and, more careful after your last misadventure, open the door only a crack with the latch still on. It is a smiling porter who says in accented but good English, “Gift from Mr Serge.”
You open the door, and the porter hands you a garment in a cloth bag. You open the bag and almost gasp at what is inside: a beautiful white ao dai dress, the national dress of Viet Nam, along with delicate white shoes to go with it. You pause but decide to try it on. It’s made of shimmering white silk, with a high but delicate collar, tapered at the waist, and then drops down to the ground. It looks beautiful on you!
You are met downstairs in the hotel breakfast room by Serge, immaculate as always in a white three piece suit. He is seated at the table; he sees you out of the corner of his eye, puts down his newspaper, stands as you approach, and doffs his hat elegantly before he helps you with your chair. You thank him with a slight tilt of your head in acknowledgement. Before you is a breakfast that would not be out of place in the centre of Paris : croissants, jam, coffee, and fresh rolls, on brilliantly bleached and pressed linens, served in fine china and meticulously polished silver.
“Ah, thank you for trying on the dress,” Serge says. You blush a little, less at his thanks than your inward embarrassment at accepting such a gift from a stranger! Serge notices your reluctance. “Ah, the dress is not my idea – it is your uncle’s.” he says. You relax a little, until Serge says, “This is my idea.” He reaches over and unpins your long black hair so that it cascades down your shoulders and back. You are appalled at his effrontery!
Serge is merely amused; he lifts his index finger to his lips as if to ask you not to judge so hastily.
“Vietnamese women with hair as beautiful as yours wear it long. The style is called toc the. It is appropriate for the dress….”
“Monsieur Hainault, I…I must object!” you sputter, still shocked at the liberty he has taken.
“Had I asked, you would have said no, and Hue would be less beautiful for it. So who is wrong?” Serge counters. Only he could turn such an outrage into a compliment. You stew a bit, until Serge pulls out a compact mirror from his vest and holds it up to you. You see how you look in the dress – beautiful with your hair loose in the ao dai.
“All right, but let this be the last presumption,” you say, simulating indignation. Serge chuckles and nods in agreement. He grins slyly as if to say he knows what you are thinking. This partially pleases and partially infuriates you as you have your breakfast.
“The tomb is not far from the city, and the roads are good there,” says Serge as you finish up. “My driver will take us there.”
Serge is right: the car ride to the tomb winds gently up into the hills surrounding Hue . Soon , on a wide expanse of land, is an ornate burial complex of Khai Dinh. The stone work is elaborate, with surprisingly delicate arches craning over broad steps that lead to the main chamber. The French influences on the architecture are unmistakable, yet this remains a very Vietnamese place. It’s only three years old, having been completed in 1931, yet it feels like it’s been here forever.
You tour the tomb, elaborately laid out in exquisite ceramics and gold, then you begin to wonder about your uncle’s cryptic clue. Where is the lion from whose mouth you must retrieve Uncle Ned’s pocket watch? Maybe Serge can think of something. You turn around to ask Serge if he has any ideas. But he is nowhere to be seen.
“Serge?” you ask, puzzled by his sudden absence. “Mr Haineault?” You begin to look for him, but he is not in the tomb itself. You walk outside, but cannot see him on the plaza outside the tomb. You begin to walk down the stairs, until suddenly the meaning of your uncle’s riddle becomes clear. You didn’t notice them earlier, so taken aback by the overall view, but now you notice that there are stone lions at the foot of the stairs leading to the tomb, their mouths wide open. You go to the one on the left side, and stick your hand in: sure enough, you feel a round metal object. You pull it out, and sure enough, it is the watch! It is still on its chain. Your traditional ao dai dress has no pockets, so you put the slender gold chain around your neck and tuck the watch under your dress.
Now to find Serge. You look around the base of the tomb, calling for your guide. You walk away from the stairs, to the right, onto the grounds surrounding the tomb. Lush trees and ferns hem the stonework closely. You brush leaves and branches aside gently, tiptoeing in your soft slippers and white dress as you search for Serge.
You round a corner, far from the populated parts of the tomb, when suddenly you see a figure in a suit lying face down on the ground. It’s Serge! You gasp as you rush toward him, wondering what has gone on here!
“Serge! What happened?” you ask, trying to rouse him. But he is unconscious, from what cause, you cannot tell.
At that moment, you hear a low but sing-song voice behind you say, “Excuse me, Miss?” You stand up and turn around and answer, “Yes?”
Two unfamiliar men stand before you, clad in traditional loose cloth Viet black clothes. “Come with us,” says the taller one.
“But my friend here may be hurt!” you protest.
“We know. We were the ones that hurt him!” says the taller one as the smaller one lunges toward you with unexpected agility. He clamps a gloved hand over your mouth before you can even let out a scream for help, and pins your arms to your sides with his other arm.. The taller man pulls some rope out of his pockets. Your eyes widen in terror at the realization that these men have knocked out Serge and are attempting to kidnap you!
“Mmpphhff!” you moan in muffled protest, squirming uselessly in the tight grip of your attacker. The taller man pulls your arms tightly behind your back; you fight in vain as he binds your wrists together with savage purpose. Once your arms are tied, the taller man pulls out two red hankerchiefs. The smaller man lets go of your mouth and the taller one forces one cloth into your mouth, then stuffs the other between your lips over the first. You feel the cloth being pulled taut into a tight cleave gag, your protests stifled, your arms hopelessly bound!
The two men start speaking in Vietnamese. You don’t understand a word. They hustle you into the trees. You struggle as best you can, and glare at your cruel captors as they force march you over the rough path, but you can do little to resist them. You come to a clearing where a small cart pulled by oxen awaits. The tall man lifts you up and throws you into the cart, despite your wriggling. He then jumps in the back. You start to kick as best you can , but he soon clamps down his hands on your slender legs and begins to tie those, too. The shorter man gets into the driver seat and prepares to leave.
You writhe and buck furiously as the taller one finished tying your ankles together. You struggle on, until the tall man pulls out a knife and says , “Quiet, or I will cut you up!” You freeze in terror at his threat, and start to sob softly. The taller man covers most of you with a sack cloth, mercifully leaving your head uncovered so at least you can breathe properly! But he leers at you in your helplessness, grinning and occasionally licking his knife blade salaciously as he stares at you. You look away in horror.
The shorter one starts the oxen, and you ride slowly down a bumpy forest trail into a narrow valley behind the tomb. You are roughly jolted in the ramshackle cart, unable to adjust to the ride, tied up as you are. You look around as best you can, trying to attract attention to your plight. But the trail is a lonesome country trail, and you see no one else.
After a long ride, the cart comes to a halt. The tall man pulls off the sack cloth covering you, jumps out and carries you off the cart in his arms. You see you are in a little clearing by a large river. There is a pole in the middle of the clearing and a large iron cistern next to it. The two kidnappers drag you to the pole and lash you to it savagely at the arms, waist, and knees. They chuckle evilly as you writhe helplessly, tied uncomfortably to the pole in your white dress.
The tall one pulls off your gag. “You have very important future,” he says. “Very brief, but very important!”
You gasp, “Wha…what do you mean? Let me go!”
“No, you are to be sacrificed to ancient river god – the crocodile!”
“No! Release me this instant! You can’t do this!”
The tall man smirks. “River god cannot be denied. Bad for harvest.”
“You can’t still believe that nonsense!” you say. “And what is that giant pot there for?”
You notice the smaller man gathering wood and placing it at the bottom of the cistern. Your heart sinks as you guess the answer to your question even before it is given to you.
“Ah, Crocodile God likes his flesh cooked,” says the tall one.
“No! That’s hideous! Let me go, I beg you!” you plead.
“Heh heh heh, river god gets an extra beautiful sacrifice today. The harvest will be good.”
“Help! Help! Somebody! Anybody! Please hel—mmppphhhffff!” you scream, until you are silenced by a re-administration of your hateful gag.
“Now we heat the water in the pot, then get you ready,” the taller man says, grinning insanely. You twist frantically in your restraints, all to no avail. The ropes are fiendishly tight and absolutely unbreakable!
“With good fire water will boil quickly,” your captor says as you look on with horror as they prepare to stew you alive!
You arrive at the airfield, and as promised your uncle has left a glorious new De Havilland Tiger Moth biplane, its wired wings taut when viewed head on, but the airfoils as shapely as lips in profile. The hanger staff help you load your bag into the front seat as you climb up to the pilot’s seat behind. You check your instruments as the personnel strap down your bags, kick the blocks from the tires, and start to pull your plane out into the sunlight. You find the maps promised on the side of the cockpit, by your knees,
Weather is forecast to be sunny and calm throughout your flight path today. It should be a glorious trip. The hangar crew point your aeroplane at the top of the new cement runway. You put on your goggles and give them a thumbs up. They reach up and spin the propeller as hard as they can, cranking up the 165 hp Gypsy 1C engine. The loud buzz of the engine thrills you as you embark on your first real international solo flight!
You accelerate down the runway until the wheels of the Tiger Moth leave the ground. Your soar into the azure morning sky and get the most glorious view of the necklace of little islands that grace the Hong Kong, Macao , and the estuary of the Si Kiang . You then bank and head west south-west, hugging the south China coast. Your plane only has a range of 275 miles, and this 800 mile flight is going to take you most of the day.
You have a jaunty flight, refueling at a lonely spot at the end of Kwangxi province, then across to Hainan island, refueling just before crossing the strait and then once again taking in all the fuel you can at the southwestern end of the island for the long ride across the Gulf of Tongking . With the sun shining, you have no trouble staying on course, the biggest danger in the crossing, for the distance to the coast of Vietnam is uncomfortably close to the maximum range of the plane.
But on such a good day, the risks are small. You fly smoothly over the Gulf, and catch sight of the lush coast of French Indochina – Viet Nam . You left Hong Kong at 7 AM sharp. It is now late in the afternoon. But at least you can get a wonderful cup of Vietnamese coffee in Hue tonight! The shore is lush fronds of palms, a deep green everywhere that makes the most beautiful gardens you’ve ever seen pale in comparison. For all the jungle-like flora, the land looks strangely fragile.
With the sun setting over the hills that rise up not too far from the coast, you approach a broad clearing with some oddly out-of place buildings clearly designed by French architects. You descend and land at the airfield at Hue .
A tall smartly dressed man in a light cloloured suit and a snap-brimmed hat greets your plane. He gallantly offers his hand as you clamber out of the cockpit and climb down to the ground – and not so gallantly looks you up and down quite audaciously, letting you know he likes what he sees.
“Bonsoir Mademoiselle Davies – I am Serge Hainault, I hope your uncle has spoken of me?” he says.
“He wrote of you, Monsieur Hainault. Thank you for greeting me.”
“Ah, the pleasure is mine. My, but you make pilot clothes quite fashionable,” he says saucily as he admires you in your tight fitting jacket, jodhpurs, and boots.
You wonder what your uncle was thinking by allowing this man to be your guide. But maybe he’s just French – suggestive but harmless. “How do you know Uncle Ned?” you ask, to find out a little more about him.
“Ah, Edward, he and I are partners in the tea business here,” Serge says as he gets up on the place, unstraps your bags and lifts them out of the plane to the ground. “Did your uncle ever mention East Asia Tea Exporters?”
“Yes, he did.”
“Well, that is our project together. But now I am supposed to show you Hue and be your guide. Please, come with me! I have already arranged for storage of your plane overnight.” Sure enough, airfield workers are busy taking the plane into a hanger and battening it down until you depart.
Serge guides you to a waiting black car with a driver. He opens your door and, after helping you in, puts your bag in the boot and then sits next to you. A louche he may be but he is polite, you think. The driver heads off over the broken dirt road. You are jostled slightly on the bumpy road but the ride is not too bad. You drive through thick tropical forest that alternate with marshes and rice paddies. The road improves as you come closer to a great river, the Huong. All the names of the towns are romantically exotic: Lam Mai, Quang Xuien, Phu Vang… You are heading into the hills inland, and as the land starts to undulate slightly it becomes clear you are getting closer to a major city.
When the car finally bursts into Hue, the sun has set and the city emerges as a galaxy of candle lights, coloured paper lanterns, their radiance bouncing off the tranquil waters of the bending, iridescent Huong River. Shadows are cast by venerable stone buildings, dark grey old pre-colonial Viet structures, and some flimsier, but no less grand, white wooden colonial palaces, with great verandas that encircle them. You occasionally pass by huge temples and ruins of old palaces.
“What do you think of Hue ?” Serge asks.
“It’s beautiful,” you answer.
“Yes, this was the capital of the Nguyens three hundred years ago. It remains Indochina ’s most beautiful city. Hue is renowned for its canals, its gracefulness, its balance.”
“It merits that,” you agree. As you pass you notice the people – men and women dressed traditionally, but elegantly, in fine silks. The women in particular are somehow—different – they seem not to walk but glide across the streets as if floating above the ground. You are fascinated by the exotic beauty of it all.
Serge notices your absorption. “ Hue also has a reputation for having the most beautiful women in Indochina ,” Serge offers just slightly salaciously. “As you can see they take that reputation quite proudly and seriously.” Then, with heretofore unseen humility, he says very softly. “I think you fit right in, if I may say it.”
You are pleased not just by his compliment but by the sudden kindness with which he offered it. “Why, thank you,” you say.
“Are you hungry for dinner?” Serge asks.
“I am famished!”
“Well, you are in French territory now, so you will eat well!”
“But I must change first!” you protest.
“Nonsense! I am client de la maison at a place nearby. They will not insist on evening dress, especially when I describe how far you have come!”
You agree and are taken to a lovely, quiet restaurant right on the embankments of the river. Little lights are hung all around the mahogany room. A delicious meal is offered, a split of French and Viet dishes, with not just the tastes you are used to but pungent coriander, ginger, and lemongrass. After your long day the meal is heavenly!
Serge explains over the meal that you have been given a room in the Dong Da Hotel right in the centre of the city. “You’ll get a good night’s rest then we’ll head out to the tomb of Khai Dihn tomorrow. It’s a popular place to visit.”
“Is it creepy?” you ask.
“No! Not at all – it is majestic!”
Serge takes you to your hotel, translates for you to get you registered, then has a porter bring your bags up to the room. “Good night, Mademoiselle Emma. I shall be here at a civilized hour tomorrow, say a lovely outdoor breakfast at 10?”
“That would be welcomed,” you smile, eager to catch some sleep. You get to your room, not noticing the two men in the shadows who are watching you in the lobby from behind their newspapers. You are too tired to notice such things right now -- your ordeal in Hong Kong a distant memory. In your room your windows are open to let in the soft night breeze. You are lulled by the tropical birds' songs and crickets’chirps, and you drift off to sleep quickly, looking forward to your adventure tomorrow.
+++
The next morning you are awakened by a knock on your door. You put on your robe and, more careful after your last misadventure, open the door only a crack with the latch still on. It is a smiling porter who says in accented but good English, “Gift from Mr Serge.”
You open the door, and the porter hands you a garment in a cloth bag. You open the bag and almost gasp at what is inside: a beautiful white ao dai dress, the national dress of Viet Nam, along with delicate white shoes to go with it. You pause but decide to try it on. It’s made of shimmering white silk, with a high but delicate collar, tapered at the waist, and then drops down to the ground. It looks beautiful on you!
You are met downstairs in the hotel breakfast room by Serge, immaculate as always in a white three piece suit. He is seated at the table; he sees you out of the corner of his eye, puts down his newspaper, stands as you approach, and doffs his hat elegantly before he helps you with your chair. You thank him with a slight tilt of your head in acknowledgement. Before you is a breakfast that would not be out of place in the centre of Paris : croissants, jam, coffee, and fresh rolls, on brilliantly bleached and pressed linens, served in fine china and meticulously polished silver.
“Ah, thank you for trying on the dress,” Serge says. You blush a little, less at his thanks than your inward embarrassment at accepting such a gift from a stranger! Serge notices your reluctance. “Ah, the dress is not my idea – it is your uncle’s.” he says. You relax a little, until Serge says, “This is my idea.” He reaches over and unpins your long black hair so that it cascades down your shoulders and back. You are appalled at his effrontery!
Serge is merely amused; he lifts his index finger to his lips as if to ask you not to judge so hastily.
“Vietnamese women with hair as beautiful as yours wear it long. The style is called toc the. It is appropriate for the dress….”
“Monsieur Hainault, I…I must object!” you sputter, still shocked at the liberty he has taken.
“Had I asked, you would have said no, and Hue would be less beautiful for it. So who is wrong?” Serge counters. Only he could turn such an outrage into a compliment. You stew a bit, until Serge pulls out a compact mirror from his vest and holds it up to you. You see how you look in the dress – beautiful with your hair loose in the ao dai.
“All right, but let this be the last presumption,” you say, simulating indignation. Serge chuckles and nods in agreement. He grins slyly as if to say he knows what you are thinking. This partially pleases and partially infuriates you as you have your breakfast.
“The tomb is not far from the city, and the roads are good there,” says Serge as you finish up. “My driver will take us there.”
Serge is right: the car ride to the tomb winds gently up into the hills surrounding Hue . Soon , on a wide expanse of land, is an ornate burial complex of Khai Dinh. The stone work is elaborate, with surprisingly delicate arches craning over broad steps that lead to the main chamber. The French influences on the architecture are unmistakable, yet this remains a very Vietnamese place. It’s only three years old, having been completed in 1931, yet it feels like it’s been here forever.
You tour the tomb, elaborately laid out in exquisite ceramics and gold, then you begin to wonder about your uncle’s cryptic clue. Where is the lion from whose mouth you must retrieve Uncle Ned’s pocket watch? Maybe Serge can think of something. You turn around to ask Serge if he has any ideas. But he is nowhere to be seen.
“Serge?” you ask, puzzled by his sudden absence. “Mr Haineault?” You begin to look for him, but he is not in the tomb itself. You walk outside, but cannot see him on the plaza outside the tomb. You begin to walk down the stairs, until suddenly the meaning of your uncle’s riddle becomes clear. You didn’t notice them earlier, so taken aback by the overall view, but now you notice that there are stone lions at the foot of the stairs leading to the tomb, their mouths wide open. You go to the one on the left side, and stick your hand in: sure enough, you feel a round metal object. You pull it out, and sure enough, it is the watch! It is still on its chain. Your traditional ao dai dress has no pockets, so you put the slender gold chain around your neck and tuck the watch under your dress.
Now to find Serge. You look around the base of the tomb, calling for your guide. You walk away from the stairs, to the right, onto the grounds surrounding the tomb. Lush trees and ferns hem the stonework closely. You brush leaves and branches aside gently, tiptoeing in your soft slippers and white dress as you search for Serge.
You round a corner, far from the populated parts of the tomb, when suddenly you see a figure in a suit lying face down on the ground. It’s Serge! You gasp as you rush toward him, wondering what has gone on here!
“Serge! What happened?” you ask, trying to rouse him. But he is unconscious, from what cause, you cannot tell.
At that moment, you hear a low but sing-song voice behind you say, “Excuse me, Miss?” You stand up and turn around and answer, “Yes?”
Two unfamiliar men stand before you, clad in traditional loose cloth Viet black clothes. “Come with us,” says the taller one.
“But my friend here may be hurt!” you protest.
“We know. We were the ones that hurt him!” says the taller one as the smaller one lunges toward you with unexpected agility. He clamps a gloved hand over your mouth before you can even let out a scream for help, and pins your arms to your sides with his other arm.. The taller man pulls some rope out of his pockets. Your eyes widen in terror at the realization that these men have knocked out Serge and are attempting to kidnap you!
“Mmpphhff!” you moan in muffled protest, squirming uselessly in the tight grip of your attacker. The taller man pulls your arms tightly behind your back; you fight in vain as he binds your wrists together with savage purpose. Once your arms are tied, the taller man pulls out two red hankerchiefs. The smaller man lets go of your mouth and the taller one forces one cloth into your mouth, then stuffs the other between your lips over the first. You feel the cloth being pulled taut into a tight cleave gag, your protests stifled, your arms hopelessly bound!
The two men start speaking in Vietnamese. You don’t understand a word. They hustle you into the trees. You struggle as best you can, and glare at your cruel captors as they force march you over the rough path, but you can do little to resist them. You come to a clearing where a small cart pulled by oxen awaits. The tall man lifts you up and throws you into the cart, despite your wriggling. He then jumps in the back. You start to kick as best you can , but he soon clamps down his hands on your slender legs and begins to tie those, too. The shorter man gets into the driver seat and prepares to leave.
You writhe and buck furiously as the taller one finished tying your ankles together. You struggle on, until the tall man pulls out a knife and says , “Quiet, or I will cut you up!” You freeze in terror at his threat, and start to sob softly. The taller man covers most of you with a sack cloth, mercifully leaving your head uncovered so at least you can breathe properly! But he leers at you in your helplessness, grinning and occasionally licking his knife blade salaciously as he stares at you. You look away in horror.
The shorter one starts the oxen, and you ride slowly down a bumpy forest trail into a narrow valley behind the tomb. You are roughly jolted in the ramshackle cart, unable to adjust to the ride, tied up as you are. You look around as best you can, trying to attract attention to your plight. But the trail is a lonesome country trail, and you see no one else.
After a long ride, the cart comes to a halt. The tall man pulls off the sack cloth covering you, jumps out and carries you off the cart in his arms. You see you are in a little clearing by a large river. There is a pole in the middle of the clearing and a large iron cistern next to it. The two kidnappers drag you to the pole and lash you to it savagely at the arms, waist, and knees. They chuckle evilly as you writhe helplessly, tied uncomfortably to the pole in your white dress.
The tall one pulls off your gag. “You have very important future,” he says. “Very brief, but very important!”
You gasp, “Wha…what do you mean? Let me go!”
“No, you are to be sacrificed to ancient river god – the crocodile!”
“No! Release me this instant! You can’t do this!”
The tall man smirks. “River god cannot be denied. Bad for harvest.”
“You can’t still believe that nonsense!” you say. “And what is that giant pot there for?”
You notice the smaller man gathering wood and placing it at the bottom of the cistern. Your heart sinks as you guess the answer to your question even before it is given to you.
“Ah, Crocodile God likes his flesh cooked,” says the tall one.
“No! That’s hideous! Let me go, I beg you!” you plead.
“Heh heh heh, river god gets an extra beautiful sacrifice today. The harvest will be good.”
“Help! Help! Somebody! Anybody! Please hel—mmppphhhffff!” you scream, until you are silenced by a re-administration of your hateful gag.
“Now we heat the water in the pot, then get you ready,” the taller man says, grinning insanely. You twist frantically in your restraints, all to no avail. The ropes are fiendishly tight and absolutely unbreakable!
“With good fire water will boil quickly,” your captor says as you look on with horror as they prepare to stew you alive!
Thursday, June 18, 2009
End of Chapter 2 of "Emma and the Great Race"
(When we last left our heroine, Emma Davies was trapped on the dingy wharfs of 1934 Hong Kong, about to be sold at an impromptu salve auction...)
You squirm impotently, now reduced to a lot in an underground slave auction. You fight the ropes and chains that bind you inextricably to the post in the decrepit shack of Pinkins and his infernal associates. “Why me?” you think to yourself, bemoaning your cruel fate at the hands of these hateful kidnappers. Little do you know that there is a sinister answer to your very question.
Pinkins harsh, guttural voice brings you back to the desperate here-and-now. “Say, gents, where shall ‘e biddin’ start? Do I 'ear 10 000 pounds sterlin’?” Several of the attendees are clearly put off by Pinkins’s enjoyment of his power over you; the room is silent.
“Come now, ‘ere ‘ere, it’s a high price but this one’s a stark ravin’ beauty! An English rose if ever I seen one,” Perkins says. “Oh, now I fink I know why you are so reluctant to bid – you ‘aven’t seen all o’ ‘er yet!” He mounts the crude auction stage on which you have been placed. He gathers your hair in one fist and roughly grabs the collar of your white silk dress roughly in the other. He yanks back your head uncomfortably, exposing your neck. “Nice white neck, she ‘as…” he grunts. “Annat’s no’ aw!” he says with his tongue anging out of his mouth. You cringe in horror and shock as he appears about to rip the dress to expose your body to these…these outlaws!
“No need for that Pinkins-san,: says the Japanese bidder. “We can see her virtues well enough. Be so kind, do not spoil the merchandise!”
“All right, I’ll bid 10 000 pounds,” says the emissary from Johor. “Only please leave her alone. Your behavior is quite uncalled for.”
Your eyes well up and you try to say “thank you” to the Johor bidder for even this small mercy in your degrading helplessness. Pinkins’s face degenerates into a snarl as he looks at you, then roughly lets go of your dress, robbed of his chance to violate your dignity again.
“11 000,” says the man from Mao’s camp.
You notice that Pinkin’s rough treatment of you has slightly loosened your stifling gag. You try to work on it more, pushing with your tongue and moving your head as best you can to try to force it out from between your now dry lips.
“12 000,” the Japanese aide-de-camp says.
Pinkins turns to the Westerner. “You know she’s worth a lo’ more, don’t you, sir? Aren’t you going to place a bid, too?”
“In a moment,” the Westerner says in a soft Welsh lilt but without betraying any emotion in his face.
“15 000,” the man from Johor bids.
You finally succeed in pushing the gag out of your mouth! The wad drops from your mouth as you gasp out your last plea for mercy to the bidders. You can expect no clemency from the vicious Pinkins. “Please, please, what are you doing? You can’t buy a person! It’s….it’s…”
“Uncivilized?” the Welshman interrupts.
“Cruel!” you reply. “Horribly, unspeakably cruel!”
“Eh, missie, ‘oo said you were allowed to speak?” Pinkins says, as he walks up the auction stage again.
“I beg you, tell this fiend Pinkins to let me go! He can’t get away with this! There will be an inquiry into my disappearance! Please I beg yo –mmphhfff!” Your last plea is truncated as Pinkins stuffs the wad, now moist from your spit and dirty from being on the floor, back in your mouth. You start to cry again, miserable as your last bid for freedom has failed!
The Welshman, at the rear of the audience, pulls out a large pistol from inside his jacket, raises his voice, and says, “The lady is quite right. You won’t get away with this!”
You look up, eyes wide with amazement and joy at the sudden possibility of salvation after all hope had gone!
Everyone turns around and freezes. “Please disarm yourselves, and place any weapons on the floor right now,” the Welshman says. “My name is Norris. I represent a very special client – HM George V! And he is quite possessive about all his subjects, even in the most remote of his dominions.”
Pinkins tries to play his last card. He speaks to the others. “Now, gents, I fink you oughta let this taffy know who’s boss ‘round ‘ere? You wanna do porridge for an honest transaction? You wanna rot in the bucket and pail an' explain ‘at to your bosses when you get out?”
The Welshman looks straight at Pinkins and smiles. “No, these dignitaries may not be aware of British law, and I am sure –“ he smiles at the other bidders for a moment – “that none of them is aware that this ‘merchandise’ is in fact the victim of a kidnapping! So I think they should just leave quietly and we can consider the matter closed for them.”
The other three bidders start to slink out of the shack, relieved not to be under arrest. "As for you, Mr Pinkins,” the Welshman continues, “you are fully aware of the law and penalties for illegal auctions, kidnapping, fraud, and a host of other offences connected with this sordid affair.” He turns to face the two Chinese assistants of Pinkins, but it seems they too have slipped away from the shack. “All right, Pinkins, untie her – now!”
Pinkins, his head low in defeat and suppressed rage, does as he is told, unchaining you from the pole, then untying your hands from behind your back. You rip off your gag and then start to rub your sore, red wrists. “Thank you, thank you,” you say to your rescuer.
“Keep your hands up please,” says Norris to your abductor. Pinkins scowls as he stands next to you. You are overcome with indignant fury as you recover from your ordeal. You stand before Pinkins and slap him across the face. “Shame on you!” is all you can say.
Pinkins glowers. Norris says, “I believe the appropriate East End phrase is ‘It’s a fair cop, guv!’ But what would a Taffy know?” He walks up to the auction stage, handcuffs Pinkins, and turns to you. “I have to take this man in for questioning. The police station is a short walk from here , and I can arrange to take you home from there if tht will be all right.”
“Yes, and thank you. I shudder to think what would have happened to me if you had not been here!” you say.
You accompany Norris to the police station and then are escorted back to the Mandarin Hotel. This time there is no one waiting to jump you in your suite, and you can enjoy a luxurious bath in your room. You are still unsettled by the day’s events, but you still want to continue with the adventure Uncle Ned suggested in the documents he left with his lawyer, Osgoode. After all, it’s not as if Uncle Ned’s eccentric ideas could subject you to more peril than you have already been through, could they?
You lounge in the hotel’s bathrobe on your bed, refreshed and cleaned up, ready to look over the packet from Uncle Ned left on a table in the sitting room. There is a single sheet of paper on it, in Uncle Ned’s handwriting.
“Your aeroplane is waiting at the airfield. Maps are in the cockpit seat. First trip is a relatively short one – a warm up. You have to make your way to the city of Hue , south west of Hong Kong , in French Indochina. One of my colleagues, Serge Hainault, will greet you there and escort you. You must collect a special token that belongs to me that I have placed at the tomb of Khai Dihn, who passed away in 1925. The challenge is this: you will have to retrieve my pocket watch from the mouth of a lion! I am sure you are equal to the task. You will like Hue – it is the Venice of Asia. Good luck! Affectionately, your Uncle Ned.”
“My goodness!” you think to yourself. “After today I am not sure I want to tangle with lions!” But you know Uncle Ned – there has to be a trick – that is the point of his eccentric puzzles. When you get there, you feel confident, you will know what to do!
You lapse into a well deserved slumber. The next morning, you rise, wondering what you may have packed for an adventure. Luckily, you brought clothes for flying, so proud you are of your pilots’ licence. Finally a girl gets to do something they usually let only boys do! You think of your upcoming adventure as a way of showing that women should have their freedom, too – or else it’s all too easy to be treated like chattel, as you were yesterday!
You don the crisp white blouse, tight white jodhpurs, and form fitting brown leather jacket, that make up your flying kit. You pull on the snug black boots that go with the ensemble, then throw a brown cashmere scarf around your neck with flair. Finally you sweep your hair up under a leather flying cap and perch the goggles on your forehead. You are ready for adventure!
You squirm impotently, now reduced to a lot in an underground slave auction. You fight the ropes and chains that bind you inextricably to the post in the decrepit shack of Pinkins and his infernal associates. “Why me?” you think to yourself, bemoaning your cruel fate at the hands of these hateful kidnappers. Little do you know that there is a sinister answer to your very question.
Pinkins harsh, guttural voice brings you back to the desperate here-and-now. “Say, gents, where shall ‘e biddin’ start? Do I 'ear 10 000 pounds sterlin’?” Several of the attendees are clearly put off by Pinkins’s enjoyment of his power over you; the room is silent.
“Come now, ‘ere ‘ere, it’s a high price but this one’s a stark ravin’ beauty! An English rose if ever I seen one,” Perkins says. “Oh, now I fink I know why you are so reluctant to bid – you ‘aven’t seen all o’ ‘er yet!” He mounts the crude auction stage on which you have been placed. He gathers your hair in one fist and roughly grabs the collar of your white silk dress roughly in the other. He yanks back your head uncomfortably, exposing your neck. “Nice white neck, she ‘as…” he grunts. “Annat’s no’ aw!” he says with his tongue anging out of his mouth. You cringe in horror and shock as he appears about to rip the dress to expose your body to these…these outlaws!
“No need for that Pinkins-san,: says the Japanese bidder. “We can see her virtues well enough. Be so kind, do not spoil the merchandise!”
“All right, I’ll bid 10 000 pounds,” says the emissary from Johor. “Only please leave her alone. Your behavior is quite uncalled for.”
Your eyes well up and you try to say “thank you” to the Johor bidder for even this small mercy in your degrading helplessness. Pinkins’s face degenerates into a snarl as he looks at you, then roughly lets go of your dress, robbed of his chance to violate your dignity again.
“11 000,” says the man from Mao’s camp.
You notice that Pinkin’s rough treatment of you has slightly loosened your stifling gag. You try to work on it more, pushing with your tongue and moving your head as best you can to try to force it out from between your now dry lips.
“12 000,” the Japanese aide-de-camp says.
Pinkins turns to the Westerner. “You know she’s worth a lo’ more, don’t you, sir? Aren’t you going to place a bid, too?”
“In a moment,” the Westerner says in a soft Welsh lilt but without betraying any emotion in his face.
“15 000,” the man from Johor bids.
You finally succeed in pushing the gag out of your mouth! The wad drops from your mouth as you gasp out your last plea for mercy to the bidders. You can expect no clemency from the vicious Pinkins. “Please, please, what are you doing? You can’t buy a person! It’s….it’s…”
“Uncivilized?” the Welshman interrupts.
“Cruel!” you reply. “Horribly, unspeakably cruel!”
“Eh, missie, ‘oo said you were allowed to speak?” Pinkins says, as he walks up the auction stage again.
“I beg you, tell this fiend Pinkins to let me go! He can’t get away with this! There will be an inquiry into my disappearance! Please I beg yo –mmphhfff!” Your last plea is truncated as Pinkins stuffs the wad, now moist from your spit and dirty from being on the floor, back in your mouth. You start to cry again, miserable as your last bid for freedom has failed!
The Welshman, at the rear of the audience, pulls out a large pistol from inside his jacket, raises his voice, and says, “The lady is quite right. You won’t get away with this!”
You look up, eyes wide with amazement and joy at the sudden possibility of salvation after all hope had gone!
Everyone turns around and freezes. “Please disarm yourselves, and place any weapons on the floor right now,” the Welshman says. “My name is Norris. I represent a very special client – HM George V! And he is quite possessive about all his subjects, even in the most remote of his dominions.”
Pinkins tries to play his last card. He speaks to the others. “Now, gents, I fink you oughta let this taffy know who’s boss ‘round ‘ere? You wanna do porridge for an honest transaction? You wanna rot in the bucket and pail an' explain ‘at to your bosses when you get out?”
The Welshman looks straight at Pinkins and smiles. “No, these dignitaries may not be aware of British law, and I am sure –“ he smiles at the other bidders for a moment – “that none of them is aware that this ‘merchandise’ is in fact the victim of a kidnapping! So I think they should just leave quietly and we can consider the matter closed for them.”
The other three bidders start to slink out of the shack, relieved not to be under arrest. "As for you, Mr Pinkins,” the Welshman continues, “you are fully aware of the law and penalties for illegal auctions, kidnapping, fraud, and a host of other offences connected with this sordid affair.” He turns to face the two Chinese assistants of Pinkins, but it seems they too have slipped away from the shack. “All right, Pinkins, untie her – now!”
Pinkins, his head low in defeat and suppressed rage, does as he is told, unchaining you from the pole, then untying your hands from behind your back. You rip off your gag and then start to rub your sore, red wrists. “Thank you, thank you,” you say to your rescuer.
“Keep your hands up please,” says Norris to your abductor. Pinkins scowls as he stands next to you. You are overcome with indignant fury as you recover from your ordeal. You stand before Pinkins and slap him across the face. “Shame on you!” is all you can say.
Pinkins glowers. Norris says, “I believe the appropriate East End phrase is ‘It’s a fair cop, guv!’ But what would a Taffy know?” He walks up to the auction stage, handcuffs Pinkins, and turns to you. “I have to take this man in for questioning. The police station is a short walk from here , and I can arrange to take you home from there if tht will be all right.”
“Yes, and thank you. I shudder to think what would have happened to me if you had not been here!” you say.
You accompany Norris to the police station and then are escorted back to the Mandarin Hotel. This time there is no one waiting to jump you in your suite, and you can enjoy a luxurious bath in your room. You are still unsettled by the day’s events, but you still want to continue with the adventure Uncle Ned suggested in the documents he left with his lawyer, Osgoode. After all, it’s not as if Uncle Ned’s eccentric ideas could subject you to more peril than you have already been through, could they?
You lounge in the hotel’s bathrobe on your bed, refreshed and cleaned up, ready to look over the packet from Uncle Ned left on a table in the sitting room. There is a single sheet of paper on it, in Uncle Ned’s handwriting.
“Your aeroplane is waiting at the airfield. Maps are in the cockpit seat. First trip is a relatively short one – a warm up. You have to make your way to the city of Hue , south west of Hong Kong , in French Indochina. One of my colleagues, Serge Hainault, will greet you there and escort you. You must collect a special token that belongs to me that I have placed at the tomb of Khai Dihn, who passed away in 1925. The challenge is this: you will have to retrieve my pocket watch from the mouth of a lion! I am sure you are equal to the task. You will like Hue – it is the Venice of Asia. Good luck! Affectionately, your Uncle Ned.”
“My goodness!” you think to yourself. “After today I am not sure I want to tangle with lions!” But you know Uncle Ned – there has to be a trick – that is the point of his eccentric puzzles. When you get there, you feel confident, you will know what to do!
You lapse into a well deserved slumber. The next morning, you rise, wondering what you may have packed for an adventure. Luckily, you brought clothes for flying, so proud you are of your pilots’ licence. Finally a girl gets to do something they usually let only boys do! You think of your upcoming adventure as a way of showing that women should have their freedom, too – or else it’s all too easy to be treated like chattel, as you were yesterday!
You don the crisp white blouse, tight white jodhpurs, and form fitting brown leather jacket, that make up your flying kit. You pull on the snug black boots that go with the ensemble, then throw a brown cashmere scarf around your neck with flair. Finally you sweep your hair up under a leather flying cap and perch the goggles on your forehead. You are ready for adventure!
Friday, June 12, 2009
Emma Davies and the Great Race -- Chapter 2
(Before I even release this post, let me offer the now necessary disclaimer: This is set in East Asia in 1934. Some of the characters use offensively derogatory - but true-to-the-period - racial terms. Similarly, some of the Chinese characters speak the sort of pidgin English found only in 1930s movies. I DO NOT adhere to these stereotypes; you will note only the villains speak thusly. I was merely trying to recreate a world, with both its good and thankfully obsolete points...but we left poor Emma as she had been abducted.)
Chapter 2 - Britons never, never, never will be slaves?
At first, all you can see is a blurry point of light….try to concentrate, you say to yourself, as your head is still spinning from the effect of the chloroform. You hear a voice, tinny, Chinese: “Eh, boss-man, she awakens…”
Dark shapes moving in front of you. You can’t make them out. “Wha…?” is all you can say, gulping to keep back the nausea.
Another voice, deep, harsh, east-end London . “Right, you li’uhl devils. You nearly offed ‘er for good wiv the dose you gave ‘er. Easy onna poison next time, lads, aw right? We wants ‘em alive, or no profit – you unnastand profit, don’t you lads?”
A wave of drug-induced miasma washes over you, and your eyes roll up into your head as you start to pass out again. The last thing you hear is the Cockney voice grumbling out: “Lovely, well done, we’re landed, chaps.” Then you black out again.
You wake once more, exhausted, but the chloroform has worn off a bit more. You don’t know how long you’ve been out. The fuzzy point of light you can now see is a gas lamp in this dreary room you now realize you are in. Your limbs ache. You try to move them….you can’t!
The awful truth dawns on you: you feel your wrists firmly tied behind your back. You are seated in a wooden chair, your slender ankles also bound together. You try to move your legs but find your ankles are not only tied together but also pulled back and tied to the legs of the chair. You try to cry out, but your mouth is stuffed up this time – you feel a tight cloth gag filling your mouth and tied around your cheeks. All that emerges is a feeble “mmpphhff!”
“Oi, she’s back in the realm of the livin’!” you hear the guttural east end voice exclaim. You look to your left: a large man dressed like a stevedore, his tongue lalling out of his mouth, shuffles up to you and looks you over with hideously unwelcome attention. In the background, ahead of you but at the far end of this…this shack in which you ar being held captive, are two Chinese.
You look with helpless terror at the English man. He doffs his dusty bowler. “ Arfur Pinkins, at your service, your ladyship. I believe you have already made the acquaintance of Lester and Chong-Li.” You squint a bit to focus – yes, those are the two bellhops who abducted you from the hotel! Now they are dressed as coolies, undistinguishable from countless teeming thousands in the colony.
“They picked your outfit, as you might guess,” the odious Pinkins says. You wonder what he is taking about…until you look down at your dress. Gone are your fashionable clothes from London . Instead, you are wearing a light white silk dress, with short sleeves and a collar of shorts….a Suzy Wong dress, the dress style worn by….
A wave of red hot indignation rises up and clears your head. How dare they! Undressing you while you were unconscious, and dressing you like a…a…fallen woman! The nerve! You struggle against your bonds with obstinate fury, so angry are you at their impudence. But Arthur Pinkins just laughs as you exhaust yourself, straining futilely against the ropes lashing you to the chair.
“There, there, duckie, no need to get yer knickers in a twist…and quite lovely knickers they are, I might add!”
You lunge at him, but the ropes yank you back to the chair. You start to sob, frustrated, frightened, still dazed from having been so brazenly kidnapped.
From the back, Lester speaks up in his thickly accented English. “Hey, bossman, make her stop crying! Red face no good for sale. Clients want good girl, no problems!
What? You mind reels at the implications of what he said. But Arthur speaks to you before you have a chance to think. “You don’t have to cry, Emma. We’ll be right gentlemen from now on. If you stop crying, I’ll take the gag off. No tears innose lovely mince pies, aw right?” You nod miserably, and he unties your hateful gag. You gasp and cough as you can breathe fully again. Your mouth is dry as the Sahara .
“You horrible, horrible fiends!” you say softly. “Let me go!”
“Now, fiend is no’ a word I fink I like, “Arthur says. “An’ ‘ere I was, about to offer you some water…”
“No, please! Let me have some water!” you say.
“Now a lucky toff like you ought to know ‘ow to be polite, ask fer it nice-like!” Arthur says.
“Please, I would like some water.”
“Better!” Arthur pours some water out of a flagon into a dented pewter cup and lifts it to your lips. You drink in – it’s lukewarm and foul, but you desperately need it.
“Please let me go – what is it you want with me?” you ask, twisting slightly in your bonds.
“Oh, there is a rising market for refined European girls out ‘ere,” Arthur says. “Too bad you isn’t blonde, the slanties love ‘em blonde…”
“You don’t mean….?”
“Course I do, lamb. I ‘ave been in a bit o’ whatcha might call low water for a while, so I intend to rectify my situation with a bit of traffic onna side – namely, selling you to a wealfy whatcha call ‘em?
“Sultan,” says Lester.
“Yeah, Sull-‘han, down in Malay-land, where you’ll be his personal love-slave!”
“No! You can’t do this! It’s barbaric, it’s….inhuman!”
“Yes I certainly can, Emma. An look a’ it this way: you’ll still be livin’ be’er than most of the poor blighters there – at least, until the Sull-’han wears you out…heh heh heh…An’ with the coin I get from you I’ll move back to the Smoke an’ be livin in Belgravia, an’ every night onna tiles!”
“No! You dastardly monster!” You panic and start to scream for help. It might be your last chance! “Help! Somebody help me! I’ve been kidnapped! Please, somebody help – mmppphhffff!”
“Enuff ovvat!” Arthur sneers as he stuffs your mouth with the gag and stars to tie it back.. “Oh Lester, why is it all ‘e ‘igh-class bints always scream?”
“Don’t know bossman,” is the Chinese’s laconic reply. "Don't know what means bint."
"Yeah, right, well it's the King's English for bird." The Chinese look even more confused.
"No' worf the bovver, you two," Arthur mutters. Then he turns to you.
“Let’s make you a bit more salable merchandise,” Arthur says, as he reaches to the top of yoru had and pulls out the hairpin keeping your back tresses swept up. Your long black hair cascades down around your shoulders. For a moment Arthur is taken aback by your beauty. Then he hardens again. “Yeah, yeah, she’ll fetch a mint, this one will…”
You writhe as best you can, but you are trapped in this hideous nightmare, bound and gagged in some vile kidnapper’s lair, about to be sold into white slavery, maybe never to see home again!
Part 2
You squirm helplessly in your white silk courtesan’s dress and white pumps. You notice that although the dress appears to be modest enough, with a hem below the knee, there is a slit cut on one side up to a perfectly scandalous level, exposing your leg whenver you struggle a bit too hard. Arthur Pinkins ogles you every time the dress shows a bit of your leg; you try as best you can to deny him his crude enjoyments.
“Yes, my dear, you make a very fetchin’ prize, you do,” he says as he eyes your shapely form under the close fitting dress.
“I demand you release me right now!” you try to insist, but through the gag it comes out, “I weman hoo weweese me wight ow!”
“Whazzat, duckie? Pickin up a li’ul ovvat pidgin Pekinese? Oi, Lester my ol’ Dutch, she makin’ sense to you?”
“No bossman,” says Lester, not even looking up from his whittling.
Pinkins turns back to you, and says sotto voce, “Chinamans all ‘ave ‘er limitations, see? ’E calls me bossman coz ‘e can’t pronounce Arfur.”
“Neither can you, you swine!” you think to yourself. How to get out of this terrible plight? You cannot get the ropes to budge at all, and these desperate criminals are planning to sell you! You tug reflexively at the thought of being sold into slavery.
Pinkins chuckles as you writhe in the ropes. “Go ahead, girlie, struggle all you want. I got you tied up good n’ tight. You isn’t gettin’ away!”
You notice the sawdust on the floor and old grease-covered lamps on the walls – along with the wooden tables the whole building is an exercise in fire hazards. You shudder as you think the only reason this shack hasn’t burned down already is the fetid dampness of the wood – you must still be close to the harbour.
Pinkins turns to the two Chinese by the doorway at the far end of the dilapidated wooden building in which you are being held prisoner. “Eh, pigtails, any sign of our visitors?”
Lester impassively ignores the insult and says, “Two customers coming now.”
Chong-Li, the other Chinese, opens the door a little to allow two visitors in. One has an elaborate turban on his head and is clothed in purple silk. “The emissary from the Temenggong of Johor” Lester announces with a deep bow.
“Teme-what?” asks Arthur.
“The son of the Sultan and the prime minister of one of the seven sultans of the Malay peninsula ,” Lester explains.
“’Oo’s ‘e uvver one?” Arthur asks, pointing rudely at the second guest, a Japanese man who is more modestly dressed in modern clothes: top hat and tails.
“The aide de camp of the military governor of Manchukuo ,” Lester explains.
Arthur leans over to you and whispers, “Oh, Emma, you better ‘ope that Jap doesn’t buy you – the general has his pick from the lands he’s conquered in Manchuria . You’d have stiff competition wif all ‘em Chinese birds. An’ if you don’t satisfy the General…” Arthur makes a motion with his finger across his neck. You cringe in horror as his meaning sinks in.
Arthur straightens up and calls out to the Japanese. “Ah, welcome, welcome to our li’ul auction. A speshoo ‘onna to see you ‘ere. You’s doing a splennid job taking over from these Chinamen. Can’t wait til you runs the whole country – ‘cept ‘Ong Kong, of course. That’s part o’ the big red Empire, it is!”
The two guests look with displeasure at Pinkins and his blissfully ignorant chauvinism. In less than seven years, Hong Kong, Singapore, Malaysia, Burma, and the rest of the the British Empire in the Far East would all be under Japanese occupation, though Pinkins could not know that now.
“Ah, you must be wantin’ to see the merchandise! Step righ’ up, don’t be shy…she’s a beauty, as I promised!” The two step closer and start to look you over. You wince as they lift your head by the chin to get a good look at your face, cringe as they admire your feminine curves under the dress, and try to make yourself as modest as possible as they look you up and down as if you were an animal. You start to cry at the degradation and horror of it all.
“Oi. Duckie, stop that! Customers don’t like it!” Pinkins says, rushing toward you.
“Leave the young lady alone, for heaven’s sake,” says the emissary from Johor in impeccable English. “Just stop badgering us all!”
The Japanese, in a thicker accent, says, “Yes, with respect, may we think about when the auction might proceed?”
“Eh, yeah, right, then let’s go!” says Pinkins.
“Wait, bossman, two more bidders come as I told you,” says Lester. Chong-Li admits two new men, one Chinese and dressed like a peasant, the other, surprisingly, a Westerner in a leather jacket and jodhpurs. “The assistant of a warlord in Jiangxi Province ,” Lester says, indicating the Chinese, “and the representative of a businessman in Rangoon ,” he continues, indicating the Westerner.
Arthur looks the Chinese newcomer up and down. “You must be one of them Liberation Army types – what’s that chap’s name, Zhou En-lai?”
“I work for Mao Zedong,” the Chinese man says.
“OK, from Communists I accept cash only. You lot are no good for credit. No respect for profit, you lot.” Arthur sounds indignant as he looks the People’s Liberation Army types up and down with suspicion. “Well, since we’re aw ‘ere, we can get the biddin’ star’ed!”
You look on with helpless horror – what a choice, to be sold to a Communist warlord, or a Japanese general, or maybe worse!
“Get ‘er up on ‘e auction block, boys!”
Lester and Chong-Li walk over to you, unite your feet , then lift you painfully out of the chair, and walk you to a small raised platform nailed together around one of the poles supporting the shack roof. They push you roughly against the pole, despite your eyes pleading for mercy. They show none as they force your back against the post.
“Go on, tie her!” Arthur snaps. The two henchmen cruelly chain you to the post, firm metal links are wrapped around your waist and across your chest, lashing you to the post. Meanwhile, Arthur sets up four seats for the bidders to ogle you from slightly below. You shift your body to reveal as little as possible, despite your slightly vulnerable position. Your hair cascades over one eye as you start to weep in fear and disgust at the degrading spectacle Pinkins is making of you. Lester pulls back your long black hair and then steps down.
“Let’s begin the bidding, shall we?” Arthur says.
Chapter 2 - Britons never, never, never will be slaves?
At first, all you can see is a blurry point of light….try to concentrate, you say to yourself, as your head is still spinning from the effect of the chloroform. You hear a voice, tinny, Chinese: “Eh, boss-man, she awakens…”
Dark shapes moving in front of you. You can’t make them out. “Wha…?” is all you can say, gulping to keep back the nausea.
Another voice, deep, harsh, east-end London . “Right, you li’uhl devils. You nearly offed ‘er for good wiv the dose you gave ‘er. Easy onna poison next time, lads, aw right? We wants ‘em alive, or no profit – you unnastand profit, don’t you lads?”
A wave of drug-induced miasma washes over you, and your eyes roll up into your head as you start to pass out again. The last thing you hear is the Cockney voice grumbling out: “Lovely, well done, we’re landed, chaps.” Then you black out again.
You wake once more, exhausted, but the chloroform has worn off a bit more. You don’t know how long you’ve been out. The fuzzy point of light you can now see is a gas lamp in this dreary room you now realize you are in. Your limbs ache. You try to move them….you can’t!
The awful truth dawns on you: you feel your wrists firmly tied behind your back. You are seated in a wooden chair, your slender ankles also bound together. You try to move your legs but find your ankles are not only tied together but also pulled back and tied to the legs of the chair. You try to cry out, but your mouth is stuffed up this time – you feel a tight cloth gag filling your mouth and tied around your cheeks. All that emerges is a feeble “mmpphhff!”
“Oi, she’s back in the realm of the livin’!” you hear the guttural east end voice exclaim. You look to your left: a large man dressed like a stevedore, his tongue lalling out of his mouth, shuffles up to you and looks you over with hideously unwelcome attention. In the background, ahead of you but at the far end of this…this shack in which you ar being held captive, are two Chinese.
You look with helpless terror at the English man. He doffs his dusty bowler. “ Arfur Pinkins, at your service, your ladyship. I believe you have already made the acquaintance of Lester and Chong-Li.” You squint a bit to focus – yes, those are the two bellhops who abducted you from the hotel! Now they are dressed as coolies, undistinguishable from countless teeming thousands in the colony.
“They picked your outfit, as you might guess,” the odious Pinkins says. You wonder what he is taking about…until you look down at your dress. Gone are your fashionable clothes from London . Instead, you are wearing a light white silk dress, with short sleeves and a collar of shorts….a Suzy Wong dress, the dress style worn by….
A wave of red hot indignation rises up and clears your head. How dare they! Undressing you while you were unconscious, and dressing you like a…a…fallen woman! The nerve! You struggle against your bonds with obstinate fury, so angry are you at their impudence. But Arthur Pinkins just laughs as you exhaust yourself, straining futilely against the ropes lashing you to the chair.
“There, there, duckie, no need to get yer knickers in a twist…and quite lovely knickers they are, I might add!”
You lunge at him, but the ropes yank you back to the chair. You start to sob, frustrated, frightened, still dazed from having been so brazenly kidnapped.
From the back, Lester speaks up in his thickly accented English. “Hey, bossman, make her stop crying! Red face no good for sale. Clients want good girl, no problems!
What? You mind reels at the implications of what he said. But Arthur speaks to you before you have a chance to think. “You don’t have to cry, Emma. We’ll be right gentlemen from now on. If you stop crying, I’ll take the gag off. No tears innose lovely mince pies, aw right?” You nod miserably, and he unties your hateful gag. You gasp and cough as you can breathe fully again. Your mouth is dry as the Sahara .
“You horrible, horrible fiends!” you say softly. “Let me go!”
“Now, fiend is no’ a word I fink I like, “Arthur says. “An’ ‘ere I was, about to offer you some water…”
“No, please! Let me have some water!” you say.
“Now a lucky toff like you ought to know ‘ow to be polite, ask fer it nice-like!” Arthur says.
“Please, I would like some water.”
“Better!” Arthur pours some water out of a flagon into a dented pewter cup and lifts it to your lips. You drink in – it’s lukewarm and foul, but you desperately need it.
“Please let me go – what is it you want with me?” you ask, twisting slightly in your bonds.
“Oh, there is a rising market for refined European girls out ‘ere,” Arthur says. “Too bad you isn’t blonde, the slanties love ‘em blonde…”
“You don’t mean….?”
“Course I do, lamb. I ‘ave been in a bit o’ whatcha might call low water for a while, so I intend to rectify my situation with a bit of traffic onna side – namely, selling you to a wealfy whatcha call ‘em?
“Sultan,” says Lester.
“Yeah, Sull-‘han, down in Malay-land, where you’ll be his personal love-slave!”
“No! You can’t do this! It’s barbaric, it’s….inhuman!”
“Yes I certainly can, Emma. An look a’ it this way: you’ll still be livin’ be’er than most of the poor blighters there – at least, until the Sull-’han wears you out…heh heh heh…An’ with the coin I get from you I’ll move back to the Smoke an’ be livin in Belgravia, an’ every night onna tiles!”
“No! You dastardly monster!” You panic and start to scream for help. It might be your last chance! “Help! Somebody help me! I’ve been kidnapped! Please, somebody help – mmppphhffff!”
“Enuff ovvat!” Arthur sneers as he stuffs your mouth with the gag and stars to tie it back.. “Oh Lester, why is it all ‘e ‘igh-class bints always scream?”
“Don’t know bossman,” is the Chinese’s laconic reply. "Don't know what means bint."
"Yeah, right, well it's the King's English for bird." The Chinese look even more confused.
"No' worf the bovver, you two," Arthur mutters. Then he turns to you.
“Let’s make you a bit more salable merchandise,” Arthur says, as he reaches to the top of yoru had and pulls out the hairpin keeping your back tresses swept up. Your long black hair cascades down around your shoulders. For a moment Arthur is taken aback by your beauty. Then he hardens again. “Yeah, yeah, she’ll fetch a mint, this one will…”
You writhe as best you can, but you are trapped in this hideous nightmare, bound and gagged in some vile kidnapper’s lair, about to be sold into white slavery, maybe never to see home again!
Part 2
You squirm helplessly in your white silk courtesan’s dress and white pumps. You notice that although the dress appears to be modest enough, with a hem below the knee, there is a slit cut on one side up to a perfectly scandalous level, exposing your leg whenver you struggle a bit too hard. Arthur Pinkins ogles you every time the dress shows a bit of your leg; you try as best you can to deny him his crude enjoyments.
“Yes, my dear, you make a very fetchin’ prize, you do,” he says as he eyes your shapely form under the close fitting dress.
“I demand you release me right now!” you try to insist, but through the gag it comes out, “I weman hoo weweese me wight ow!”
“Whazzat, duckie? Pickin up a li’ul ovvat pidgin Pekinese? Oi, Lester my ol’ Dutch, she makin’ sense to you?”
“No bossman,” says Lester, not even looking up from his whittling.
Pinkins turns back to you, and says sotto voce, “Chinamans all ‘ave ‘er limitations, see? ’E calls me bossman coz ‘e can’t pronounce Arfur.”
“Neither can you, you swine!” you think to yourself. How to get out of this terrible plight? You cannot get the ropes to budge at all, and these desperate criminals are planning to sell you! You tug reflexively at the thought of being sold into slavery.
Pinkins chuckles as you writhe in the ropes. “Go ahead, girlie, struggle all you want. I got you tied up good n’ tight. You isn’t gettin’ away!”
You notice the sawdust on the floor and old grease-covered lamps on the walls – along with the wooden tables the whole building is an exercise in fire hazards. You shudder as you think the only reason this shack hasn’t burned down already is the fetid dampness of the wood – you must still be close to the harbour.
Pinkins turns to the two Chinese by the doorway at the far end of the dilapidated wooden building in which you are being held prisoner. “Eh, pigtails, any sign of our visitors?”
Lester impassively ignores the insult and says, “Two customers coming now.”
Chong-Li, the other Chinese, opens the door a little to allow two visitors in. One has an elaborate turban on his head and is clothed in purple silk. “The emissary from the Temenggong of Johor” Lester announces with a deep bow.
“Teme-what?” asks Arthur.
“The son of the Sultan and the prime minister of one of the seven sultans of the Malay peninsula ,” Lester explains.
“’Oo’s ‘e uvver one?” Arthur asks, pointing rudely at the second guest, a Japanese man who is more modestly dressed in modern clothes: top hat and tails.
“The aide de camp of the military governor of Manchukuo ,” Lester explains.
Arthur leans over to you and whispers, “Oh, Emma, you better ‘ope that Jap doesn’t buy you – the general has his pick from the lands he’s conquered in Manchuria . You’d have stiff competition wif all ‘em Chinese birds. An’ if you don’t satisfy the General…” Arthur makes a motion with his finger across his neck. You cringe in horror as his meaning sinks in.
Arthur straightens up and calls out to the Japanese. “Ah, welcome, welcome to our li’ul auction. A speshoo ‘onna to see you ‘ere. You’s doing a splennid job taking over from these Chinamen. Can’t wait til you runs the whole country – ‘cept ‘Ong Kong, of course. That’s part o’ the big red Empire, it is!”
The two guests look with displeasure at Pinkins and his blissfully ignorant chauvinism. In less than seven years, Hong Kong, Singapore, Malaysia, Burma, and the rest of the the British Empire in the Far East would all be under Japanese occupation, though Pinkins could not know that now.
“Ah, you must be wantin’ to see the merchandise! Step righ’ up, don’t be shy…she’s a beauty, as I promised!” The two step closer and start to look you over. You wince as they lift your head by the chin to get a good look at your face, cringe as they admire your feminine curves under the dress, and try to make yourself as modest as possible as they look you up and down as if you were an animal. You start to cry at the degradation and horror of it all.
“Oi. Duckie, stop that! Customers don’t like it!” Pinkins says, rushing toward you.
“Leave the young lady alone, for heaven’s sake,” says the emissary from Johor in impeccable English. “Just stop badgering us all!”
The Japanese, in a thicker accent, says, “Yes, with respect, may we think about when the auction might proceed?”
“Eh, yeah, right, then let’s go!” says Pinkins.
“Wait, bossman, two more bidders come as I told you,” says Lester. Chong-Li admits two new men, one Chinese and dressed like a peasant, the other, surprisingly, a Westerner in a leather jacket and jodhpurs. “The assistant of a warlord in Jiangxi Province ,” Lester says, indicating the Chinese, “and the representative of a businessman in Rangoon ,” he continues, indicating the Westerner.
Arthur looks the Chinese newcomer up and down. “You must be one of them Liberation Army types – what’s that chap’s name, Zhou En-lai?”
“I work for Mao Zedong,” the Chinese man says.
“OK, from Communists I accept cash only. You lot are no good for credit. No respect for profit, you lot.” Arthur sounds indignant as he looks the People’s Liberation Army types up and down with suspicion. “Well, since we’re aw ‘ere, we can get the biddin’ star’ed!”
You look on with helpless horror – what a choice, to be sold to a Communist warlord, or a Japanese general, or maybe worse!
“Get ‘er up on ‘e auction block, boys!”
Lester and Chong-Li walk over to you, unite your feet , then lift you painfully out of the chair, and walk you to a small raised platform nailed together around one of the poles supporting the shack roof. They push you roughly against the pole, despite your eyes pleading for mercy. They show none as they force your back against the post.
“Go on, tie her!” Arthur snaps. The two henchmen cruelly chain you to the post, firm metal links are wrapped around your waist and across your chest, lashing you to the post. Meanwhile, Arthur sets up four seats for the bidders to ogle you from slightly below. You shift your body to reveal as little as possible, despite your slightly vulnerable position. Your hair cascades over one eye as you start to weep in fear and disgust at the degrading spectacle Pinkins is making of you. Lester pulls back your long black hair and then steps down.
“Let’s begin the bidding, shall we?” Arthur says.
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