by Zen Cho
“What happened to the other votaries? The ones who weren’t there.”
Tet Sang shrugged. “The smart ones disappeared. The ones who went to the Protectorate when they came back and found the tokong destroyed got resettled. One or two got executed for conspiring with bandits.”
Guet Imm did not ask if they had been guilty. She must have known that that was of no importance.
“The bandits thought we were conspiring with the mata at my tokong,” she said. “They thought we were spying on them and reporting back to the Protectorate. That’s why they came after us—at least, I think so,” she added. “There was nobody left to ask when I came out. They stopped bringing me food; that’s how I realised something had happened. But it took me a while to notice. By the time I came out to check, more than a week had passed.”
“How did you know it was the bandits who did it?” said Tet Sang.
Guet Imm’s expression did not change. “Some of their bodies were still there. My sisters fought back also.”
There was a brief silence.
“But why the bandits did it, that’s what I think only,” said Guet Imm. “People in town didn’t want to talk about what happened. Maybe they didn’t know. So, I’m still not sure.”
“I told you,” said Tet Sang. “A silent war.”
He sat down next to Guet Imm.
“It’s dangerous for people to talk,” he said. “They’re caught between the Protectorate and the bandits. Don’t blame them.”
“I don’t.”
Tet Sang glanced at the nun. Sombre, Guet Imm looked unlike herself. “Or yourself.”
“I don’t,” said Guet Imm. Her eyes were as dark and clear as a pool of water at night. “I don’t blame myself, or the people who did it, or the deity. That’s the difference between you and me.”
Tet Sang didn’t answer.
He expected Guet Imm to indulge in evangelism now that she’d extracted the sorry truth of his past. He would rather she rubbed salt into his wound, but he said nothing to forestall her; it was what she had been taught. He braced himself for platitudes, quotes from the scriptures, exhortations to return to the start of the road.
Instead, she said, “Where do you think the money went?”
Tet Sang blinked. “What money?”
“The money you were going to use to buy the rice, from the last job,” said Guet Imm. “And the deposit Yeoh Thean Tee paid for the tokong treasures.”
“Oh,” said Tet Sang, nonplussed. “Some of it would have gone on the rice. Ah Lau doesn’t like to owe people money.” For all his faults, Fung Cheung was scrupulous in his dealings with tradespeople—the ordinary men and women living on a knife’s edge in this time of war. “The rest he probably gambled away.”
“I thought you said he didn’t like to owe people money.”
Tet Sang shrugged. “Depends on the people.”
Guet Imm was gazing straight ahead, her face grave. It was hard to tell what she was thinking.
“The Yeoh family,” she said, after a pause. “They’re good people, followers of the deity?”
“The Yeohs are running dogs,” said Tet Sang.
At Guet Imm’s startled look, he said, “You cannot stay rich in times like these without eating sin. If you don’t dare to do wrong, then you will suffer. There were one thousand guests at Yeoh Thean Tee’s son’s wedding. They had suckling pig and a separate tent just for halal food. You tell me, are they suffering?”
“That’s how you think of them,” said Guet Imm. “And you were willing to sell your tokong’s treasures to these people?”
Tet Sang wanted to tell her that goods were not people; that everything precious in the tokong was lost beyond recovery the day the mata murdered its inhabitants. He had borne away empty things—things that had no meaning, now that those who had once polished and prayed over them were gone.
It would only have been the truth. Yet he found himself speaking another truth, emerging from a part of himself he had thought long dead and buried.
“Yeoh Thean Tee is a survivor,” said Tet Sang. “After the war, whoever wins, the family will still be rich. Whether they stay here, or they run somewhere else, the Yeohs will be okay.”
“They were the safest custodians you could think of,” said Guet Imm.
Tet Sang looked away from the radiance of her face. “We were lucky they were willing to buy. Most people won’t want things taken from a tokong where the Abbot was murdered. Scared of bad luck. That’s why the price was so low.”
“You shouldn’t let superstition devalue what you’re offering, brother,” said Guet Imm. She assumed a business-like air. “You must tell Mr Yeoh the price is eight hundred cash for each sarira, and that’s only because you’re giving him face in this time of war. I guess you’ll have to deduct the eight hundred cash deposit he already paid,” she added. “But no more than that. We cannot take responsibility for the other eight hundred, since we never received it. Mr Yeoh will pay when we explain the value of what he’s getting. The objects will help protect his family. The deity’s grace is in them.”
“What are you talking about?” said Tet Sang.
Guet Imm reached into her robes and held out her hand. On her palm lay three crystals of extraordinary translucence and beauty—chips of trapped light that seemed to illuminate the shelter. Tet Sang had last seen them nestled in the gold chalice Guet Imm had thrown at the mata’s head in Sungai Tombak.
“You—” he said. “Where did you get those from?”
“You didn’t think I’d throw away the sacred relics of the deity’s own body?” said Guet Imm. “Three sarira! I didn’t know Permatang Timbul was so blessed. I think we should ask for three taels, actually. One tael per sarira. It would be disrespectful to the deity to ask for less.”
“You didn’t want to sell the relics at all! You said it was an outrage!”
Guet Imm tucked the sarira away.
“Ah, but that was before I knew the whole story,” she said. “Now I understand the deity’s intention. She sent me to you for a reason, brother. But we shouldn’t go through that Mr Ng again. He is not an enlightened man.
“The question is,” said Guet Imm, “where does Yeoh Thean Tee live?”
“Mr Yeoh Thean Tee is not at home,” said the maidservant. “He went outstation on business. Coming back in three weeks’ time.”
Fung Cheung and Tet Sang exchanged a look.
“Is Mr Yeoh Kok Beng around?” ventured Fung Cheung, naming Yeoh Thean Tee’s eldest son.
The maidservant shook her head. “He went with Tuan Yeoh. All the sons and nephews did. There’s nobody in the house.” She gave Fung Cheung a melting look, expressive of both abject apology and shameless longing. “Sorry, sir.”
It would not have been like Fung Cheung to fail to respond with gallantry to anyone paying tribute to his charms. Despite his disappointment, he managed to muster a winsome smile for the girl.
“It’s our bad timing,” he said. “Thank you, sister.” He waited till she reluctantly shut the door to turn on Tet Sang and Guet Imm, the smile falling off his face.
“So, how?” demanded Fung Cheung.
It hadn’t been easy to persuade him to agree to the new plan.
“Let me check I understand correctly,” he’d said when Guet Imm had explained what she proposed. “You want us to go to Yeoh Thean Tee’s own house and demand an audience with one of the richest and most powerful men on the peninsula. Then you want to say to Yeoh Thean Tee, I know we almost got your man busted by the mata, but we still want to sell you the same illicit goods we offered before. But fewer of the goods. For more money.”
“That’s it,” said Guet Imm, gratified by Fung Cheung’s ready understanding.
“We are outlaws wanted by the Protector,” said Fung Cheung. “Maybe you have not noticed, but the mata are chasing us right now. That is why we are spending so many nights in the jungle. It is not because we enjoy being bitten by mosquitoes and leeches. Meanwhile, Yeoh Thean Te
e’s business interests depend on the Protector’s support. He cannot afford to be caught fraternising with bandits—”
“Yes, but we’re not bandits,” said Guet Imm. “Why shouldn’t Yeoh Thean Tee talk to us? It’s not like we’re criminals.”
“Well,” said Fung Cheung cautiously. “We haven’t done any bad crimes.”
“You must understand how these things work, sister,” he went on, before Guet Imm could ask any questions. “Yeoh Thean Tee only deals with people like us through intermediaries. If we go to his door, we won’t even have the chance to ask for money. They will straight off shoot us.”
“Not if you have a nun with you,” said Guet Imm.
Fung Cheung tilted his head, considering the point, but his lip stayed in its dubious curl. “Ah Sang, you think this plan can work?”
“Yeoh Thean Tee gave a daughter to the Pure Moon,” said Tet Sang. “He will know how to value the deity’s relics, and how to respect one of her votaries. But whether he’ll forgive the debt…” He shrugged. “Religion is one thing, money is another.”
“More to the point, brother,” said Guet Imm, “do you have any other options?”
Fung Cheung met Tet Sang’s eyes.
Though they had not discussed it, the obvious course of action was to disband the group, split up and go into hiding. But this was a real choice for only some of the group. You didn’t become a travelling contractor if you had anywhere better to go. Most of the brothers were not good at living in ordinary society. If Fung Cheung told them to go off and look after themselves, in all likelihood they would fail.
Everyone knew this. It made the men nervous and snappish, given to sudden outbreaks of bad temper. There had been no violence yet—Fung Cheung still had a hold on his men. They trusted him, but they would endure for only so long.
“It would be a gamble,” said Fung Cheung finally, and Tet Sang knew they were going to try Guet Imm’s plan.
It had been a gruelling journey getting to the capital of Kempas, where Yeoh Thean Tee had his main residence. They had stuck to travelling through the jungle and managed thereby to elude the mata. But the day before they arrived at Kempas, they had just barely avoided an encounter with a regiment of bandits. The group was setting up camp for the night when Rimau, who had gone hunting, came back empty-handed and told Fung Cheung they had to move on.
“There’s a party of bandits washing at the river,” said Rimau. “They have a camp here. I could smell smoke from their fires. Lucky thing they didn’t see me!”
He was pale. A handful of Malayu had joined the fight for the Reformist cause, but the majority of bandits were Tang and distrusted the Malayu as sympathizers with the Protectorate, if not actual collaborators. The bandits had attacked Rimau’s own village on the suspicion that the villagers had been giving the mata intelligence on bandit hideouts.
But if Rimau had particular reason to be afraid, none of the group desired a meeting with the bandits. While in theory the Reformist struggle could not succeed without the support of the masses, by this time most bandits had contracted a jaundiced view of the people, regarding them as unpredictable sources of food, supplies and betrayal. This made bandits difficult to deal with.
It had not improved the men’s mood to be told they could not rest after a long, sweaty, leech-infested day hacking their way through inhospitable forest, because they must run from the bandits. They were in no temper to be told that their march to Kempas had ended in failure—there was no Yeoh Thean Tee to be appealed to.
Fung Cheung had swallowed his own disappointment by the time he made the announcement to the group. He put on a tolerable pretence of regarding Yeoh Thean Tee’s absence as a small matter. “He’s only gone for three weeks. We can make the deal when he comes back.”
“But in the meantime, how?” demanded Ah Yee. “We’re supposed to hang around in the bushes for three weeks?”
Fung Cheung gave him a look of surprise. “You thought what, we were going to check in to an inn?”
Rimau snorted, but none of the other men so much as smiled, even Ah Hin.
“This is too much, brother,” said Ah Yee. “My mosquito bites have mosquito bites. Suffering for a purpose I don’t mind, but who says Mr Yeoh will pay us even when he comes back?”
“I say,” said Fung Cheung, unruffled. “You worry too much, Ah Yee.” He reached into his robes and produced a bag, which jingled as he threw it at Ah Yee.
Ah Yee caught it, startled.
“These mosquito bites are making you bad-tempered,” said Fung Cheung. “You’d better go find a herbalist in town and buy some medicine. There’s a cream in a green pot that’s very good, my mother used to use. Get us a good dinner while you’re at it. Even if we’re hiding in the bushes like bandits, there’s no reason we should eat like them—living off stale rice and ideology.”
“Thank you, brother,” stammered Ah Yee. No one had been allowed into any town or village since Sungai Tombak. “Can Ah Wing come with me to help carry?”
Fung Cheung waved his hand. “Whatever. Just make sure you get us chicken. I’m sick of eating musang.”
Tet Sang waited till the men had dispersed to their various tasks to say to Fung Cheung: “Was that a good idea?”
They’d stayed away from inhabited areas precisely to avoid the mata, and Kempas was the heart of the Protectorate’s domain in the Southern Seas, the centre from which they administered the affairs of the peninsula and its neighbouring islands.
“Ah Yee is getting jumpy. Better to give him face than have a problem,” said Fung Cheung. “Kempas is the last place the Protectorate will be hunting for bandits. You’ve seen the mata here. They all look like clerks.”
Tet Sang gave him a doubtful look, but Fung Cheung sighed.
“Don’t nag me, Ah Sang,” he said. “I’m doing the best I can.”
“What happens when all the men want money and a trip to town?”
Fung Cheung raised his hands in a gesture of helplessness. “We’ll have to ask your deity then. Maybe Sister Guet Imm can intervene with the goddess on our behalf.”
Your deity was a slip, a sign of Fung Cheung’s state of mind. He was the only one of the men who knew about Tet Sang’s past—the only one who had an idea of the circumstances in which Tet Sang had left his tokong—and he would not usually have been so tactless.
Tet Sang suppressed his wince. It might have been Fung Cheung who had decided to let Guet Imm come with them, but it was Tet Sang who had said she should stay—he who had endorsed her plan to approach Yeoh Thean Tee directly. He felt responsible for their position.
Guet Imm was conscious that she was under a cloud. She made herself scarce for most of the day, reappearing only in the evening with a basket of herbs and vegetables. When Ah Yee was predictably late returning to camp, she insisted on cooking dinner as a peace offering.
The men had not lost all their affection for her. It was testament to their good nature that they allowed this, and ate the results with minimal apparent disgust.
They were partway through dinner when Ah Yee and Ah Wing reappeared. Tet Sang glanced at them and put down his bowl.
Fung Cheung only took notice of others’ moods when it suited him. He raised his eyebrows. “No chicken, Ah Yee?”
Ah Yee’s expression was thunderous. Ah Wing said, glancing nervously at him, “We had to give it to the mata.”
“Ah,” said Fung Cheung gently. He had already been regretting the indulgence he had shown Ah Yee. Tet Sang could tell that this new turn aggravated him. He would shortly grow scathing.
“What happened?” said Tet Sang.
Ah Yee wouldn’t answer. He put down the provisions they had bought, sitting heavily on a log.
“Ah Yee bumped into a man outside the broth—outside the shop,” said Ah Wing. “Turned out to be a mata. He got angry, started threatening this and that. Said he wanted to arrest us. We had to give him the chicken to get him to let us go.”
“Should have given him Ah Yee,”
said Fung Cheung.
“Why did the mata want to arrest you?” said Tet Sang, speaking over him. “Did he recognise you all?”
It seemed unlikely. Ah Yee and Ah Wing had not appeared on the wanted posters identifying Lau Fung Cheung and his men as enemies of the Protectorate. It was true both Ah Yee and Ah Wing had been convicts before they had joined the group, but they had done their time.
Ah Wing shook his head. “The mata wanted to pick a fight only. He was drunk.”
“He wasn’t the only one,” said Fung Cheung, looking at Ah Yee.
Ah Yee did in fact smell of beer, as did Ah Wing, but Fung Cheung could have expected nothing else when he gave them money and permission to go to town. It was injudicious of him to take out his displeasure about his own bad decision-making on Ah Yee. Tet Sang shot him a warning look.
“Maybe we were not so polite before we realised he was a mata,” conceded Ah Wing. “But it was okay in the end. He was very happy about the chicken.”
Fung Cheung was evidently not done making jibes. But before he could think of any more, Ah Yee spoke.
“The girl saw from the window,” he said. He must have had more to drink than Ah Wing; his voice was thick. “She laughed at me.”
“So what?” said Fung Cheung. “Can’t be the first time a woman has laughed at you.”
Ah Yee raised his head, frowning. His gaze caught on Guet Imm, who was serving out rice porridge for Ah Wing. She sensed his eyes on her and looked up.
“You want dinner, brother?” she said.
Ah Yee rose unsteadily to his feet and glared at the pot of porridge.
“You call that dinner?” said Ah Yee. “I could shit out a better meal than this!” He tried to kick the pot but missed. He stumbled, swearing.
Guet Imm didn’t appear to notice that he had been offensive. “That means you want or don’t want?”
Ah Yee said to Ah Wing, “What’s the use of a woman if she cannot cook? Since we let this one join us, she has only caused trouble. Travel here, travel there, it’s all because of her. Now we have no money and no peace. Even our blood the leeches and mosquitoes have drunk up already.”
