by Zen Cho
“She doesn’t,” he said. “I never told Mr Tan and Madam Ooi my name.” Strictly, this was true. “Who told you Lau Fung Cheung was here?”
“We followed your tracks based on a report from a worthy citizen,” said the mata. “You shouldn’t pick fights in people’s coffeehouses, Mr Lau.”
“Mr Aw!” gasped Guet Imm. “Who knew he was so ungrateful? After you gave him all that money!”
“I’ll be more careful next time,” said Tet Sang, ignoring her, but the mata grinned.
“Boss,” he said, “there won’t be a next time. You know what the punishment for banditry is.”
Tet Sang did. He’d seen the posters—triumphant men in uniform, brandishing severed heads. The Protectorate wanted the Reformists to understand what it had in store for them.
“What’s the going rate these days?” said Tet Sang. “Twenty cash per head? I can give you more if you let us go quietly. We don’t want trouble.”
He said it more as a good-faith effort to avoid a bust-up than because he thought the offer would be accepted. It might have worked if there had only been one mata, but the chief wasn’t likely to take a bribe in front of his subordinates.
“I don’t negotiate with bandits,” he sneered. He raised his gun.
Tet Sang dodged before the mata could bring the gun down on his head, landing heavily on the floor. But Guet Imm was faster. She flipped the table, knocking over all three men. The gun went off, the report deafening in the small room.
The tailor’s wife screamed, but the bullet couldn’t have gone anywhere near her. Guet Imm nodded when Tet Sang glanced at her, to show she was fine.
“Open the door, little brother,” Tet Sang said to the tailor’s son.
The youth hesitated.
“Pukimak!” groaned one of the mata on the floor. He started struggling to his feet. Guet Imm threw the chalice at his head, dropping him.
The other two stayed down, but that didn’t necessarily mean they were unconscious. Tet Sang saw the tailor’s son’s difficulty.
“Let us out or we’ll hurt you,” Tet Sang said loudly.
“You’d better hurt him anyway, or the mata won’t believe,” screamed Madam Ooi in Tang dialect. “No need to draw blood. It’ll be enough to bruise him a little. Boy, don’t fight back!”
“But Ma!” said her son, quailing.
Guet Imm moved so quickly, Tet Sang didn’t see what she did, but the youth’s protest ended in a pained yelp. The tailor’s son staggered forward, holding his head and falling against the door as though by accident. The door swung open.
Tet Sang charged forward, pretending to shove the youth out of the way, and he and Guet Imm were out, running down the alley behind the shophouses. Madam Ooi’s voice drifted through the open door behind them:
“Tuan, tuan, help my son! Those cruel bandits hurt him! Oh, boy, boy!”
“Helpful woman,” muttered Tet Sang. Fung Cheung had remarked that Mr Tan was an old associate, but Tet Sang wondered whether the connection wasn’t really with the wife. Women went soft around Fung Cheung—not only his beauty but his feyness seemed to turn their heads. “What did you do to that boy?”
“Nothing serious,” said Guet Imm. “It’ll look worse than it is.” Without warning, she thumped him on the side of his head.
Tet Sang swore, his hand flying to his head. “What the hell?”
“No wonder you wouldn’t tell me what you were selling!” said Guet Imm. “How could you? Hawking off the deity’s sarira as though they’re—they’re—” They rounded a corner, passing a rattan shop with its wares spilling out onto the five-foot way. “As though they’re nothing more than baskets!”
“Wait,” said Tet Sang.
Two doors down from the rattan shop was one of the many abandoned shoplots that could be found in Sungai Tombak, despite its relative prosperity—people’s livelihoods were one of the many casualties of the ongoing struggle between the Protectorate and the bandits. Tet Sang pushed past a rusting grille into a shadowy doorway, dragging Guet Imm in after him.
Guet Imm hadn’t stopped talking. “You know or not how many tokong they destroyed? How many people died trying to protect the altars?”
“At the Pure Moon tokong at Permatang Timbul, it was thirty-nine,” said Tet Sang. He shoved a batik cloth he’d grabbed on the way out of the tailor’s shop at Guet Imm. “Take off your robes. You know how to wear a sarong?”
“They— What?”
“If you don’t know how to tie, I can show you,” said Tet Sang.
“No, I know how to wear a sarong, I—What did you say about the tokong?”
“Thirty-nine died,” said Tet Sang. “They didn’t die protecting the altars. Most of them ran. Just not fast enough.”
Guet Imm stared.
“Brother,” she said helplessly.
Tet Sang saw that he would have difficulty getting her to focus. He shouldn’t have answered her question. He’d spoken in part to distract himself from his own discomfort; of course he would not look, but it was awkward asking Guet Imm to disrobe in front of him.
But there were more important things to worry about than awkwardness. The mata were taking longer to come after them than he’d expected—thanks, probably, to the tailor’s wife—but the sooner they were out of Sungai Tombak, the better.
“Put on your sarong,” he said. “We have to get to the main road and get out of town. Right now, people will be going to market. We need to blend in. There’ll be plenty of men looking like me. Men escorting a nun, not so much.”
He looked at Guet Imm’s head, frowning. It had sprouted a thin fuzz since she’d joined the group, but it would still single her out in the market-going crowd. Then he had an inspiration.
“You stay here and change,” he said. “I’ll be back.”
He wasn’t gone for long. Guet Imm was knotting her sarong by the time he returned. She might have worn a sarong before, but her fumbling hands suggested it hadn’t been often. It wasn’t likely her ikat would hold.
“Let me do,” said Tet Sang.
He retied the cloth, focusing on the print. It was a colourful patterned import from the islands south of the peninsula, of the kind popular among Tang matrons. The style was a little old for Guet Imm, but it wasn’t like he’d had the luxury to pick and choose.
He’d never seen Guet Imm’s shoulders before. She smelt of sweat, but there was no trace of the scent of fear. Tet Sang would have recognised it.
He tried to touch her as little as possible.
When he was done, he set on her head what he’d picked up from the rattan shop—a wide-brimmed farmer’s hat, casting all beneath it into shade. It looked a little strange—farmers didn’t go around in sarongs with their arms exposed to the elements—but it would stand out less than Guet Imm’s bare head. He put another hat on his own head and shoved Guet Imm’s votarial robes into a rattan basket.
“Did you pay for these?” said Guet Imm, touching her hat.
“If you sleep in your shop,” said Tet Sang, “you can’t complain when people steal your wares.”
In fact, he had left some coins as payment. But he’d already betrayed too much about himself to Guet Imm that day.
“Let’s go,” he said.
“Eight hundred cash down the drain,” said Fung Cheung. “Eight hundred cash!” He ran his hands through his hair.
Tet Sang sat erect with his hands on his knees, trying to ignore the pounding at his temples. It had been a long, hot march from the sundry shop, where they had picked up Rimau and Ah Boon, to their camp. As if baking in the blistering midday sun wasn’t enough, now he had to deal with Fung Cheung throwing a tantrum while the others packed up around them.
Guet Imm was uncharacteristically quiet. He found himself wishing for once that she would talk—cajole Fung Cheung out of his foul mood with her quicksilver charm. Lacking charm, Tet Sang fell back on common sense.
“Ng’s boss won’t want to make trouble,” he said. “He’s close to the Protector. Any rumour h
e’s working with people like us would cause problems for him. If he’s smart, he’ll leave us alone. He risks more by chasing us.”
“Not if he tells the Protectorate we stole one thousand six hundred cash from him,” said Fung Cheung.
Tet Sang’s head was swimming. It was hard to focus on what Fung Cheung was saying. It took a moment before he understood.
“You mean the deposit,” said Tet Sang. “But that was only eight hundred cash.”
“And where do you think the balance went?” said Fung Cheung witheringly. “You think this Mr Ng took the chest with the rest of the money back to his boss? Even if he split with Mr Tan to keep him quiet, that’s four hundred each. All he has to do is tell his boss we ran away with it.”
Tet Sang’s headache was getting worse.
“Okay,” he said. “Maybe you’re right. But the buyer is a fair man. If we go to him directly and explain, he’ll understand. He of all people should know there was always a risk of interference from the mata. Even if we can only pay back half, that’s better than nothing. There’s no reason for us to give back the deposit if we were really trying to steal from him.”
“That’s not an option,” said Fung Cheung.
Tet Sang stared, but Fung Cheung wouldn’t meet his eyes. A sickening certainty descended on him.
“We said we would keep the money until the job was done,” said Tet Sang.
“We had to pay for the rice. Nobody gives credit for rice these days.”
“You didn’t spend eight hundred cash on rice. We were going to use the takings from the last job. What happened to that?”
Tet Sang would have been more tactful if he’d been less tired. In a good mood, Fung Cheung took scoldings well, but with the loss of face from this embarrassing revelation, being shamed could only make him angrier. Sure enough, he snapped:
“It wouldn’t matter if your nun didn’t fuck up the deal!”
“My nun? I told you not to take her on in the first place!”
“Who was the one who took her to town?” Fung Cheung retorted.
“You all sound like a married couple,” observed Guet Imm. Incredibly, she sounded amused.
This was not the kind of intervention Tet Sang had been hoping for. He and Fung Cheung both turned to glare at her.
“And you!” said Fung Cheung. “Who asked you to interfere in the deal?”
Guet Imm seemed genuinely mystified. “I’m a follower of the Pure Moon, brother. If I find out you’re selling the deity’s relics, of course I must interfere. Lucky I was there,” she added. “If the sale went through, who knows what would have happened? The deity is merciful, but she is like any god. You cannot cross the line.”
“Better to let the tokong goods burn, is it?” said Fung Cheung. “Or maybe the deity would prefer it if the Protector takes them and puts them in a museum in his country for unbelievers to look at? That’s his usual tactic. Maybe we can’t all chant sutras, but you’re not the only one who knows how to respect the gods. We didn’t simply decide to sell the goods to anybody. Yeoh Thean Tee would have looked after them properly.”
Guet Imm’s expression flickered. “Yeoh Thean Tee?”
“Even nuns have heard of him, hah?” said Fung Cheung.
He was not being serious. Yeoh Thean Tee was the head of one of the wealthiest families on the peninsula—and at one point, the Southern Seas’ most generous donor to the monastic orders. It would have been unheard of for even the most secluded anchorite not to recognise the Yeoh name.
“The Yeoh family paid for our turtle pond,” said Guet Imm. “Yeoh Thean Tee’s daughter was an acolyte of the Order.”
She seemed dumbfounded. After a moment, she said, “But he doesn’t live in Sungai Tombak, does he? I thought he was based in the capital.”
Tet Sang snorted. “You think Yeoh Thean Tee meets the butcher who supplies his siew yoke? We only talked to his agents.”
“You cannot make money if you offend the Protector,” said Fung Cheung. “But the Yeoh family has always supported the religious orders. They cannot say anything openly, but they don’t like what is happening to the tokong. They want to save the tokong goods for future generations.”
“Forget about saving the current generation,” said Tet Sang. “They are merely human beings. Not valuable.”
Fung Cheung rolled his eyes. They’d had this argument before.
“It’s not like you could put people in a sack and smuggle them out without the mata noticing,” he said. “Isn’t it better if the goods are saved at least?”
“So, they asked you to—what? Steal treasures from the tokong before the mata could get to them?” said Guet Imm.
“After,” said Tet Sang. “They asked for any sacred artefacts left in the tokong after the mata came.”
“And just so happen you had some sacred artefacts lying around?” said Guet Imm sceptically.
Fortunately, she was looking at Fung Cheung. His expression did not change.
“Just so happen we had some,” he agreed. “Lucky, right?”
Guet Imm gave him a look of suspicion. She opened her mouth.
“When Fate decides, it’s not for us to quarrel,” said Tet Sang. “It wasn’t humans who sent the Yeohs to us.”
He hadn’t planned to speak, and he heard his own words with surprise. To his disgust, he found he believed what he said, though until then, he would have said that he no longer followed any gods nor put much credence in their powers. He would have preferred to have been spared this self-knowledge.
Guet Imm looked equally surprised, but after a moment, she recovered her customary sangfroid.
“Maybe the Yeoh family is pious, but they were cheating you,” she said. “The statue was very good quality—handmade by northern craftsmen. You could have earned a tael from that alone.”
“Good thing we don’t have it anymore, then,” said Fung Cheung drily. “At least we won’t be cheated. Instead, we’re in trouble with the most powerful Tang family in the country. The Protector went to Yeoh Thean Tee’s eldest son’s wedding.”
A polite cough interrupted him.
“Cheung,” said Rimau. “We’re done.”
He jerked his head at the rest of the group. The brothers stood ready to leave with all they had strapped to their backs, trying to look as though they hadn’t been listening in on the entire conversation.
Fung Cheung held Guet Imm’s eyes for a moment.
“Fine,” he said. “Let’s go.” He rose, breaking the gaze.
Rimau was a courteous soul and it was obvious it pained him to ask, but he said in a low voice, “What about her?” His eyes flicked towards Guet Imm.
Tet Sang thought of the chalice—the one true treasure among the tokong goods they’d brought to Sungai Tombak. The other artefacts had merely been valuable. The chalice—and what it held—were irreplaceable. Guet Imm had thrown it at the mata without hesitation.
“She comes with us,” he said.
Rimau looked at Fung Cheung.
Tet Sang was prepared to defend Guet Imm—explain that it was not her fault the mata had been put onto them; that she’d helped fend the mata off, even if he was reasonably sure he could’ve got out of the tailor’s shop without her help. But angry as Fung Cheung was, Tet Sang knew he wouldn’t have to argue.
He was right.
“You heard Ah Sang,” said Fung Cheung. “Let’s go.”
“Where are we going?” said Guet Imm, in a subdued voice.
Fung Cheung didn’t respond at once. Tet Sang saw that he didn’t know the answer.
They’d had plans for what they were going to do once they completed the job and had one thousand six hundred cash at their disposal. They hadn’t planned for the job going wrong.
It was usually Tet Sang who made sure there was a backup plan. He hadn’t done it this time, because—he realised now—in his inmost heart, he had believed it was Heaven’s design that this deal should happen. He had been convinced that they were meant to entrust what r
emained of the tokong at Permatang Timbul to some of the few people on the peninsula who knew the value of the treasures and had a hope of surviving the current turmoil.
“We’re going to get lost,” said Fung Cheung finally.
There was a trail running parallel to the waterfall by which they had camped. It went up the slope before plunging into parts unknown, deep in the jungle. Fung Cheung looked at it without pleasure.
“It’s a good thing you know how to deal with leeches, Sister Guet Imm,” he said. “We’re going to need it.”
* * *
Fung Cheung wanted to go as far into the jungle as they could before darkness fell. The deeper they were, the safer they would be from the mata. The wilderness held other terrors, of course, but for now they faded into insignificance beside the concrete threat of the Protectorate.
It was not till nighttime that they stopped and pitched camp. Tet Sang hadn’t been sure how he would summon the energy to put up his shelter, but Rimau—who was somewhat more insightful than the others—stepped in to help. Tet Sang was too weary to protest.
At least Rimau had tact. Once the shelter was up, he did not trouble Tet Sang with questions or solicitude, but clapped him on the shoulder and went off.
Peace and quiet, thought Tet Sang. He felt like a man in a desert lifting a gourd of water to his lips.
He had started taking off his clothes when Guet Imm said into his ear: “There were only twenty-one votaries at Permatang Timbul.”
“Argh!” said Tet Sang. He pulled his underrobe back on hastily.
As usual, his shelter was some distance from the others’. He should have seen Guet Imm coming. But there had been no sign of her approach—just empty air all around, before she’d popped into existence like a ghost.
“Don’t do that!” he snapped. “I almost punched you.”
He expected an airy dismissal, but the nun was staring. She caught the hem of Tet Sang’s underrobe and drew it up, revealing the bandage.
“You’re hurt,” she said. “When…”
“It’s nothing,” said Tet Sang, shaking Guet Imm off.
She dropped her hand, but she’d worked out the answer for herself. “The mata’s gun that went off.”
