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!