(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!
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