The Mark of the Golden Dragon

by L. A. Meyer

  "Long story, mate," I answer, pushing off with my oar. "Mayhaps you'll hear about it someday. Cheerio, lads."

  We drop the sail, pick up the oars, and row the Star to a likely looking spot on the pier. We tie up, and Ravi barters our fish for dockage. That being settled, we head off into the wondrous city of Rangoon.

  "Let's set up here," I say, pulling my flute from my sleeve. "It seems a likely place." We are in front of one of the golden temples at the corner of two streets and there are many folk about who seem to come from many different places—some who look Indian, some who look Chinese, some who look ... what?...I don't know. There are saris and turbans and great mustaches and beards and pigtails and whatnot. Hmmm ...It is a city in which I could thrive ... and hide, maybe...

  Ravi nods and holds out his bowl, and I put flute to lip and start swaying and playing and trying to work up a bit of a crowd.

  We have dropped the veil bit, for blokes were always too curious to see what horror lay beneath it. Plus, as we had gotten closer to Rangoon, the towns were bigger and more cosmopolitan, less likely to be shocked by the appearance of someone from another land. So instead of the veil, I took to streaking my idiot face with dirt and acting the total fool, if it came to it. If anyone looks at me too closely, I cross my eyes and start to slobber. I'm getting rather good at working up some spit and drooling on cue. Then I point to my wet mouth with a dirty finger and make gurgling sounds. It works. I am not troubled with anything other than a pitying glance.

  Ha! The very proper Amy Trevelyne should see me now... I have to stifle a giggle at the thought... or better, yet, Miss Clarissa Worthington Howe, of the Virginia Howes, don'cha know—she would just die of pure vindication—"Ah told all of you that Jacky girl was nothin but a tramp and ah was right!" I guess you were, Clarissa, after all—heavy sigh—and as for the ever-so-uptight-and-proper Jaimy, well, don't even think about it.

  Anyway, I begin tootling away, and Ravi starts his rant and passes his bowl and things are going right well when I notice a tall mean-looking bloke standing off to the side, looking at me. He wears a white turban and big fierce mustache and has a stern look in his beady eyes. Do all badmashes have big mustaches? Did I slip up and speak English to Ravi as we were setting up? Did he hear? Did he know what it was I spoke? I hope not, but I know I can grow careless sometimes... Damn!

  Things quickly go worse, with the sudden and very unwelcome arrival of several of the sailors from that English merchantman I had seen earlier.

  Uh-oh...

  "Hey, if it ain't our little Cockney bint what's got 'erself all dolled up as a ching-chong Chinaman!" says the leader of the louts. 'Tis plain they're off on some well-deserved liberty and looking for some fun, and who am I to deny them that. But, no, not at my expense.

  "Play us a tune from the old sod," says one. "To warm our poor hearts so far from home."

  I'm sweating now. This is not going well! I nod to Ravi and he does his routine about me being a crippled mute, and I cross my eyes and drool and limp, but it doesn't work.

  "Oh, come on, we've heard her talk, by God, and we'll have no such guff! A song!"

  I step out of character. "Come on, mates, let me be. You are putting me in danger here, you are. I know you mean well, but you don't understand, you—"

  "Ingrish!"

  That from the throat of the big badmash with the mustache.

  He lunges toward me, grabs me by the neck, and drags me up the street. The English boys protest, but they do not pursue. Why should they? It ain't their concern what happens to some ratty-looking street singer, English or not.

  I put on my big, looping limp and moan my idiot's moan, and Ravi pleads—please, please, please, good sir, my poor sister—in some sort of language or other, and pummels the legs of the badmash, but it doesn't do any good. I am hauled farther and farther up a dark alley toward a huge, brass-bound door at the end of it.

  Time for my shiv...

  I whip it out of my forearm sheath and thrust it into the side of my abductor ... but it doesn't go in there. No, it doesn't because the brute has cinched a thick leather sash about his waist and I can't plunge my blade through that.

  I pull back for another try at his throat, but his other hand grasps my knife hand by the wrist and I am helpless. My shiv falls to the ground and the badmash stoops to pick it up, all the time shoving me relentlessly toward that big door. He puts my shiv to my throat and I don't struggle anymore.

  Oh, Lord, what now? What lies beyond this door?

  My abductor takes his hand—the one coiled about my shiv, not the one wrapped around my throat—and raps three times on the massive door, then twice, then he steps back as the massive thing swings open, revealing a long, dimly lighted hallway, down which I am thrust, with the wailing Ravi right behind me. With a grunt I take to be a curse, the brute pushes me on, and then abruptly, he turns to the right and we face yet another door.

  Another three raps, then two, and this door opens as well, and I am flung sprawling upon the floor.

  I am lying face-down on a fine rug, heavy and thick with many fine intertwined designs woven on its surface. I raise my head and see that at the end of this room is a low dais upon which sits a very fat man on a large pillow, his silk-clad legs pulled up under him. His feet are encased in soft yellow slippers with turned-up toes that plainly were not meant for any real walking. He wears a red and gold embroidered vest, and around his big belly is a golden silk sash, into which a small curved dagger is tucked, its handle encrusted with what look to be diamonds and rubies. An abacus sits in front of him. To both his left and right sit two young girls, finely dressed in filmy silks and shiny satins. In front of them are low tables holding bowls of grapes and plums and other sweetmeats. There are bottles there, too, and cups. Were I not so scared, I would find myself quite thirsty.

  I lift my head further, to look upon his face. He is plainly Chinese ... or Korean ... or something ... His round head is topped with a beaded skullcap, and on his upper lip and chin are a thin mustache and a pointy beard. He wears small round spectacles and a rather bemused expression.

  He says something to the badmash in a language I do not understand, whereupon that sterling personage reaches down and hauls me to my feet.

  "Ingrish!" he says, pointing at me.

  I go into my idiot act.

  I lurch forward, limping, my grubby hand thrust toward the seated man. I drool, I cast my eyes to a spot to the right of his head, as if I cannot focus, and I mumble most moronically, "Aww ... wah ... wah ... gorndna ... gawfff..." with lots of spittle flying on the last nonsense syllable, for good measure.

  The fat man sits silent for a while, then he quietly says— in English!—"My man says he heard you speaking English. Is this true?"

  "Awwff ... wah ... wah ... wah ... guniffffff.. "

  The fat man considers me, his small black eyes roaming over my face. "Very well. 'Tis plain you were mistaken, Ganju Thapa," he says to the badmash. "But that is all right. I am glad you are vigilant in observing the happenings in the streets."

  Hey, maybe we'll get away with this...

  We do not.

  "Ganju Thapa, take that boy there down to the boiling vats and throw him in. When his screams are ended and the flesh has completely fallen from his bones, bleach those bones such that we might sell his skeleton to the doctors. It will earn us a few coins, which I shall give to you for your diligence, such that your family shall grow in wealth."

  Ganju places his arms crosswise on his chest and bows, then he reaches down for the arm of the very wide-eyed Ravi, who has understood every word of this conversation.

  I heave a sigh, for I, myself, used this very tactic on a French spy back on my Emerald. It worked on him and it works on me. Give it up, girl.

  "Very well," I say, standing straight. "I am English. Do not harm the boy."

  The fat man chuckles. "I thought so. Fair hair and facial features such as yours are not common in this area. Please, English girl, calm yourself,
and tell me how you came to be here. It might prove amusing to me."

  He beckons to the girl on his left, and a measure of what I take to be wine of some sort is poured into a cup and offered up to him. He takes a long draft and smiles.

  In spite of myself, my mouth starts watering. The liquid is deep purple and looks very good.

  "I will tell you who I am if you tell me who you are and how you can—"

  "Ah, so you are surprised I speak your language?" He chuckles again. "You see, I was educated in your country at a place called King's College. My sponsors thought that I might prove useful to them in the ways of trade later on. They were right. I have made them very rich. Myself, too."

  There is a silvery thing off to his side with a long tube leading to a smoldering bowl, containing what I smell to be vile tobacco. The fat man puts the tube in his mouth and pulls upon it, his fat cheeks thinning with the effort.

  "The English in this area call me Chopstick Charlie because I am Chinese, and they cannot pronounce my real name. Not that the arrogant snobs care about that, anyway, nor do I, as long as the money keeps flowing into my coffers." He takes another drag on the pipe.

  "Now, who," he asks, puffing out a perfect ring of smoke, "are you?"

  I puff up my chest and say, "I am Jacky Faber, owner of Faber Shipping Worldwide. I have been shipwrecked and am desirous of being conveyed back to America wherein my enterprise is based. If you were to help me in that endeavor, you would be well rewarded."

  He laughs, his great belly shaking with mirth.

  "Quite impressive, Jacky Faber, owner of ships far away but none here. Two minutes ago you were a pathetic idiot and now you proclaim yourself a captain of industry. What are we to believe?"

  "Believe this, Chopstick Charlie, when in these waters, I sail under the protection of the mighty Cheng Shih, the Lady of the Golden Dragon!"

  The man is convulsed with laughter.

  "Oh, this is just so rich! Thank you, girl, for bringing mirth to my day. The Dragon Lady, indeed!"

  "It is true, Fat Charlie," I say, getting steamed. "I have upon my ships several pennants—a golden dragon on green field—which she gave me to grant safe passage!"

  "Oh, please, Miss! Many have seen those flags flying and heard of the famous female pirate, commander of seven hundred ships. Surely you can't expect me to believe that one such as you—"

  "How's this then, Chuck?" I ask, turning around and flipping aside my pigtail to reveal to him the golden tattoo Lee Chi had inscribed beneath it on that day back on Cheng Shih's Divine Wind.

  He starts, then adjusts his spectacles to peer at the mark.

  "Do you see it, Charlie?" I demand. "Can you read the inscription beneath the dragon? Yes? Then what does it say?"

  "It says, 'If this head falls, so will yours.'" Chopstick Charlie seems a bit subdued in reading that.

  "Well, what do you say to that?" I ask, crossing my arms.

  He considers ... then asks, "And so, how is our rather dangerous little lotus flower doing these days?"

  "The Dragon Lady is still quite dangerous, believe me. I saw her not three weeks ago."

  "And your connection?"

  "I was her ... pet."

  "Ah, well..."

  "Ah, well what?"

  "I do think, Jacky Faber of Faber Shipping Worldwide, that you have just changed from being unwilling captive of Chopstick Charlie Enterprises to being that of honored guest."

  "That's all very well, but why were we taken?" I ask, indignant. "Did you know that in civilized countries such things are against the law?"

  "True," he agrees, a small smile on his rather tiny mouth. "But this is Rangoon. And as for why we have gathered you to our presence, my man here has standing orders to report anything that might be of interest to me. He overheard you speaking English to the boy there, and he assumed, rightly, that I would be pleased if he... invited you here to meet me. The English seem to be intent on taking over this part of the world, and as a ... businessman ... it is to my advantage to keep an eye on what your very busy countrymen are up to."

  He takes another burbling drag on the pipe and inhales the smoke, letting it out after a moment, and then asks, "The boy, too, speaks English?"

  "Yes. As well as Urdu and Hindi."

  "Ummm ... good." Chopstick Charlie mulls this over a bit, then speaks to the mightily mustachioed Ganju Thapa in a language I do not understand, but the intent is immediately clear.

  The badmash goes to Ravi, grabs his arm, and begins to haul him away.

  "Stop!" I shout. "He's only a little boy and has done nothing to you!"

  "Do not worry, my dear, he shall not be harmed," says our host. "I have, uh, detained ... a business associate with whom I have had some trouble communicating my desires. He speaks only Urdu and your lad will be of immense help as a translator. He could not have arrived at a better time, both for my coffers and for the as yet uncut throat of my associate.

  "Now, my dear, how can you be of use to old Chopstick Charlie, hmmmm?" His lips, framed by his little black goatee, curl up at the ends.

  "I can speak French and Spanish as well as English, not that I wish to help you in any way," I say, fuming.

  "Um. It is obvious that you are educated to some degree."

  "Compared to most girls, yes, I suppose."

  "Then, why were you impersonating a penniless beggar?"

  "Because, for now, I am a penniless beggar, trying to get back to my home port."

  "Why did you not simply go to the British Embassy in this city and ask for assistance if, indeed, you are the owner of a shipping company? The East India Company also has a chargé d'affaires here. I'm sure they would help. Hmmm?"

  Geez ... just what I need—both the Brits and the Company finding out that Jacky Faber is not only still alive but abroad in the land.

  "Uhhh ... some sleeping dogs are best left lie," I reply, somewhat weakly.

  He chuckles, his eyes twinkling with mischievous merriment. "Oh, ho? Well, we shall see about that, my mysterious guest. Inquiries will be made."

  Damn! Why did I tell him my real name? Stupid!

  I can curse my stupidity all I want, but what the hell, let's just see what happens ... Plus, I'm getting hungry.

  "If I am such an honored guest, then why am I not being treated as such?" I ask, gazing pointedly at the wine bottle and the rest of the food laid out upon the table.

  "Why? Because you are filthy. An affront to my eyes as well as to my nose," he says, reaching for a rope and pulling it. "Here. Let us take care of that."

  A bell tinkles in a nearby room, and presently a slim young woman, richly dressed in blue silk, enters through a beaded curtain.

  "Yes, Father?" she says, bowing her elegantly coiffed head a bit in deference to Chopstick Charlie.

  "Sidrah, my dear," he says, smiling fondly on his daughter. "Please take this creature off and clean her up ... a bath ... and get her into some decent clothes."

  Well, that's much more like it, I must say...

  Chapter 12

  If anyone ever wants to get on the good side of Jacky Faber, just grab her, strip off whatever ratty clothing she might have on, and toss her grubby body into a good, hot bath.

  Aaaaahhhhhhhhhhhhhhh...

  The girl Sidrah leads me by the hand out of Chopstick Charlie's presence, through several more beaded curtains, then out a back door. Walking through a lovely garden with hanging garlands of purple and pink flowers and smelling of jasmine and other scents I'd never before sniffed, we enter a bathhouse in the rear of the place, where great gouts of steam are issuing from cracks in the floor. I suspect there is some giant boiler hidden beneath, probably being stoked by poor abused and unseen laborers.

  In the center of the room is a round pool, about twelve feet across and filled with steaming water. While the floor of the room is laid with alternating squares of teak—boards laid crosswise, then vertically—the pool itself is inlaid with a mosaic of turquoise tile, making the water within glow
with a deep rich blueness. The room is dimly lit by a skylight highabove, and braziers with fragrant herbs smolder in the corners of the bathhouse, giving off wondrous, heady scents that make my mind swim with the Oriental richness of it all.

  Two small girls appear and divest me of my ragged Powder Monkey's garb, which has certainly seen the worse for wear. The pants, the tattered shirt, and finally my shiv's forearm sheath—yes, they all fall to the side of the pool. I am led by the two little girls—ten years old if they are a day—and I am handed down the shallow steps and into the lovely warm water... Oh, yes...

  Sidrah, too, divests herself of her garments, letting them float to the floor, where they are quickly retrieved by other servants and whisked away. She slides into the steaming water beside me, and she unravels my pigtail and works soft soap into it as I lean back and moan with pleasure. She then rinses it and begins to comb it out.

  "Mmmmm," I murmur. "Thank you, Sidrah. Such a lovely name. What does it mean?"

  She smiles upon me and says, "It is short for Sidrat'ul Muntaha, which means 'The Flowering Tree That Marks the Edge of the Seventh Heaven.'"

  Oh...

  "And what means your name, Jah-kee?"

  A razor appears from somewhere and my forehead is newly shaven as are my legs and under my arms, and soaps and ointments are rubbed gently all over me from head to toe and, Oh, Lord, I love it so!

  "I am afraid that it is a common name, meaning 'Seaman,' as in 'Jack the Sailor.'"

  "Ah. I think it is a fine name. I hope we shall be friends."

  Me, too.

  My senses are reeling, but in a most pleasant way. The skylight above lets in enough sunlight such that it filters in through the haze of steam and incense and makes lovely patterns on the surface of the water. In my contrary way, my dizzy mind again thinks of my dear friend Amy Trevelyne, back in Massachusetts—Oh, Amy, my dearest friend, I am so far from you and an eternity away from Puritan Boston, and I am being bad, but how I wish you were here beside me, I do! Ha! Wouldn't that be a sight? You up to your nostrils in a pagan tub in a foreign land? Ha! But I know that never shall be. The cold comforts of the coast of New England for thee, Sister, forevermore, but for me all the joy and comforts of the whole wide wonderful world. Ahhhhh...