The Palace of Heavenly Pleasure

by Adam Williams

  Nellie sat by the fire, watching him in utter despair—but she was too weak to protest that what he appeared to be doing was useless, hocus-pocus, or worse. After a while despite herself, she had sunk into slumber. She woke when Orkhon Baatar shook her shoulder. The sky was already pink with dawn. He was smiling. He took her hand, led her to where Helen Frances lay and gestured to her to feel the pulse. It was faint, but stronger than it had been the night before.

  They had ridden through most of the morning, the doctor with the two children on one horse, Orkhon Baatar on the other, with Helen Frances drooped over his knees and Nellie holding on behind him. They had moved at a walk, threading between the folds of the hills. Just after noon they had arrived at Orkhon Baatar’s ger. They had not realised how close they had been all these last days of wandering to the wide riverbed by which Orkhon Baatar was camped.

  Orkhon Baatar had tended Helen Frances himself for two days, sitting patiently by her body, massaging her, feeding her with his herb teas, muttering his prayers. Presumably he slept, but the others never saw him do so. On the third day she had woken, and after a week she had been strong enough to walk.

  Of course, her recovery had not been immediate. It took weeks before even a diet of yoghurt and heavy mutton broth could fill out her flesh into anything that resembled her former self. And as her body grew stronger, her nightmares returned, and with them her cravings, her hunger for the drug that she knew she could never find in these wilds. Nellie tried her best to comfort her, but felt powerless as she saw Helen Frances sinking day by day into deeper apathy and despair. Orkhon Baatar had watched her closely but he did nothing.

  One evening, however, after a particularly bad bout of nightmare and restless sleep, he had woken her. He took her hand and gestured to her to follow him outside. A full moon floated high in a sky of bright stars, illuminating the ground over which they walked. He led her down the hill to the riverbank, and there he bade her sit down. From his belt he produced a pouch and gave her what appeared to be a dried mushroom, which he gestured to her to put into her mouth. She did so, noticing that he was doing the same. It tasted acrid but she forced it down her throat. They sat for a long while, listening to the sound of the rushing white water of the stream. As she sat there the noise appeared to become louder, and the hills around them to take on a stark clarity as if she was seeing them in daylight. Her head had never seemed so clear, and she felt a lightness in her body, a weightlessness. Suddenly she noticed an extraordinary sensation: she was floating above the ground. Amazingly, Orkhon Baatar also appeared to be floating. There was a merry expression in his eyes as he smiled affectionately across the short gap that separated them. Reaching across he grasped her hand, and the two rose into the air together—but that couldn’t be because on the ground below them she could clearly see their own two bodies sitting facing each other. Was it some part of her consciousness that was floating above her own body, she wondered. Yet she could feel every sensation in the limbs of this incorporeal self, and the floating Orkhon Baatar also seemed real. She could feel the leathery grasp of his hand. He was laughing and pointing upwards at the stars, which seemed to be rushing closer towards them. They mounted higher and higher, and then, at a signal from Orkhon Baatar, plunged down again into the waters of the river, and she felt the strong current pulling her she knew not where …

  She never mentioned that strange journey to the others. Indeed, when she woke in her bed next morning she wondered if it had been a dream—but it had not seemed like a dream and, unlike a dream, she could remember everything that had happened to her. Orkhon Baatar had travelled with her over continents, back in time and into her past. She had seen her childhood self, clattering delightfully along English country roads in the dogcart with her father. She had hovered above the liner where Tom and she were costumed in their fancy dress for the ship’s ball. Resisting slightly, she had allowed Orkhon Baatar to pull her away from this pleasant memory, and he brought her to China, and here again she observed herself with Tom on a train, and then with Henry—with Henry in the Palace of Heavenly Pleasure. It was the day on which he had first given her opium and she had smoked it to impress him, although he had warned her not to do it. She wanted to fly down and snatch the pipe from her hands, but Orkhon Baatar had shaken his head. Later, she had seen herself in the dispensary of the mission injecting herself with morphine, and she had cried a little, but Orkhon Baatar had forced her to watch. She pleaded with him not to take her further, but he had shaken his head sadly, drawing her inexorably to Shishan and the execution ground, and then, despite her struggles—she knew what was coming next—to the room in the brothel where she watched herself being raped …

  Mercifully that had been the end of that part of the journey. In a moment they had left the scene of horror. She found herself walking with Orkhon Baatar over the Mongolian grasslands. It was such a fine day that it was impossible to be dispirited. Great banks of white cloud towered above them and the country stretched for miles around. Orkhon Baatar began to talk to her as he walked beside her, his arms folded behind his back. He told her about the seasons, he told her where were the best pasturelands. She spotted a fox and they followed it to its lair. Inside were its three little cubs, their big eyes looking up at her endearingly. Orkhon Baatar pointed. A stag with great antlers was standing on the brow of a hill. Immediately they were by its side, running along beside it, whooping with exhilaration. He pointed at a floating speck in the sky. They flew with the eagles and the hawks. They sat by the banks of a wide, flowing river, which Orkhon Baatar said had the same name as his own. It was the sacred river to all Mongolians. By its banks the great Genghis had built his city. He invited her to swim in it. He took her clothes and she stepped into the water. She became conscious of another who was swimming beside her. She thought that Orkhon Baatar must have followed her in, but the face laughing at her side in the water was Henry’s. His blue eyes were smiling and his teeth flashed in his sunburned face. He had splashed her and she had splashed him back, and then he had taken her in his arms and kissed her passionately, and she found herself responding, feeling only joy as he entered her, conscious of the life, which they had created together, forming in her womb.

  They had sunk under the surface of the water after making love and followed the fishes as they darted through the reeds. Gradually the current took them onwards. After a while she realised that it was no longer Henry’s hand she was holding. Somehow Orkhon Baatar had replaced him. His long hair drifted behind him, and his warm eyes reflected an enormous sympathy. She realised that he knew she felt an overwhelming sadness that Henry had gone. It seemed he could read all her thoughts. They floated to the surface and drifted under the glittering stars …

  She understood, of course, that the mushroom had been a drug, and that these had been visions—but she was certain, despite that, that Orkhon Baatar had somehow been with her physically in her dream, travelling with her, protecting her from harm. She could not understand it but she knew it was so, and she believed that there had been a purpose to this vision, although she could not work out immediately what it was. Next day at breakfast when Orkhon Baatar had passed her the bowl of whey she had thanked him, putting a significant meaning into the platitudinous words, but he had only winked at her, and continued to serve. He had never spoken to her about it afterwards. He treated her with the same affectionate respect as he had before—but strangely, from that day forward, she began to feel well again. Nellie noticed it and commented. Also, her cravings disappeared, and her sleep was now rarely troubled by nightmares.

  Much later, when she had a better understanding of the language, she asked Sarantuya if her husband was a shaman. Magic man was the word she used. Sarantuya laughed. ‘To me my husband is always magical,’ she answered coyly.

  ‘But is he?’ Helen Frances persisted. ‘Is he a shaman? Can he do magic?’

  Sarantuya only smiled, giving her a sly look out of the corner of her eyes. ‘He is certainly wise,’ she said, ‘and
a healer—as perhaps you know better than I. But I do not think that a simple shepherd can be a magic man.’ And she had roared with laughter. That evening and for a few days afterwards, Sarantuya took a delight in calling her husband ‘magic man’ when she addressed him, but she was careful to preserve Helen Frances’s face by keeping the reasons for the joke to themselves.

  So the summer passed. The autumn made little difference to their lives. Orkhon Baatar had thick furs for them all, and a life in the open had made them inured to cold. They missed the hot sunny days of relaxation, but there were other pleasures. Orkhon Baatar excited the children with the prospect of going out to hunt wolves when the snows came and, to prepare them, each afternoon he coached them in firing his musket, grinning with delight when they hit their target, wagging his head and hooting when they missed. When he was satisfied that they could handle the gun, he rode off with them into the grasslands, and they took turns to fire at the marmots.

  By the time the first snows came, dusting the hills in a thin coating of powder, Helen Frances’s pregnancy was reaching an advanced stage. Sarantuya clucked over her and forbade her to accompany them to the river—not that they dawdled there long, these days. The weather was biting cold, especially if there was a strong wind. Helen Frances was quite content to lie in the ger.

  She began to feel birth pangs on the day that George killed his first fox. He had bounded into the ger in the late afternoon, shouting that he had his own fox skin and Orkhon Baatar had promised to make a hat out of it for him. He was disappointed that no one else paid him any attention. His mother and Sarantuya were kneeling beside Helen Frances’s mattress, exchanging worried glances, and Helen Frances herself was groaning in pain. It was too early for the waters to break: she was not due for another month, at least. This was certainly a cause for some alarm, although neither Nellie nor Sarantuya was panicking. They had prepared the kettle and were ready to fill the bowls with boiling water when the time came; clean cloths were laid out to hand, and with one Nellie was wiping the sweat from Helen Frances’s straining brow.

  Occasionally she would pass a withering glance at her husband, who was in his usual position by the wall of the ger, sullenly hugging his knees. She had asked for his help and he had refused, saying that Nellie and the Mongolian woman were quite capable of doing a simple piece of midwifery without his assistance, and what did she need him for, anyway, since she was clearly wearing the trousers now?

  Orkhon Baatar and Jenny appeared a while later, having seen to the horses. Orkhon Baatar silently apprised himself of the situation, then he, too, sat by the wall next to the doctor, ready to help if he was needed. George and Jenny peered over their mother’s shoulder until, irritated, she shooed them away. So they, too, sat down beside Orkhon Baatar, who winked at them, and held their hands.

  He squeezed them tightly when the screams began.

  ‘Heave, girl, heave,’ shouted Nellie, encouragingly. ‘My poor darling, my poor darling,’ she whispered, in the pauses between the spasms. ‘You’ll be fine, you’ll see,’ but Helen Frances’s eyes were rolling wildly in her agony, and her breath was coming in deep pants and no amount of wet towels on her forehead could soothe her pain.

  The hours went by.

  The screaming continued.

  Nellie moved to where her husband was sitting. ‘Edward,’ she said quietly, ‘it’s not coming out. Will you help?’

  Airton merely turned his head away. A tear was running down his cheek.

  ‘You know you’re being pathetic,’ said Nellie. ‘We need you now. Please help. I beg you.’

  Airton kept his face turned to the wall.

  Orkhon Baatar was looking up at her quizzically.

  ‘Oh, explain to him, Jenny,’ she said. ‘I haven’t the Chinese. Tell him the baby won’t come out by itself. I think she needs a Caesarian. You know what that is? Good. Can he help? Does he know how to do one?’

  Orkhon Baatar listened carefully to Jenny’s translation. His eyes widened. He nodded questioningly at Airton. ‘Is this not something the doctor should be able to do?’ he asked.

  ‘Look at him,’ said Nellie flatly. She turned back to help Sarantuya, who was trying to hold down Helen Frances’s shoulders as she vainly heaved again.

  They had never seen Orkhon Baatar angry, but they saw it now. After Nellie had left him he had sat for a moment where he was, his face smouldering. Suddenly he leaped to his feet and stood above the doctor, bunching his fists. He reached for Airton’s collar and jerked him to his feet. With his free hand he slapped the doctor hard on the cheek, and then, with the back of his hand, he slapped him again. Airton blinked at him, in amazement more than pain.

  Orkhon Baatar pushed him back against the wall of the ger. In a quick motion he snapped his knife out of his belt. Airton’s eyes widened in alarm. Orkhon Baatar pulled up the doctor’s right arm and slapped the haft of the knife into his hand, closing his fingers on it. Then, his eyes blazing, he pointed at Helen Frances.

  ‘I—I can’t,’ whispered the doctor. ‘I haven’t the confidence any more.’

  Orkhon Baatar slapped him.

  ‘Please don’t make me do this,’ he moaned.

  Orkhon Baatar slapped him again. He pulled him by the back of the collar and propelled him forward, staggering, in the direction of the women, who were watching open-mouthed in astonishment.

  ‘This—this is a hunting knife,’ whispered Airton, staring at the weapon in his hand.

  ‘You’ll have to make do,’ said Nellie. ‘I’m sure it’s sharp enough, but you’d better sterilise it in the fire.’

  ‘What—what have I become?’ It was a moan of anguish.

  ‘I really don’t know what you’ve become, Edward,’ said Nellie, taking his arm. ‘To me you’re still my husband, and a doctor. Do try to behave like one. There’s more than one life to save, and we need you now.’

  Orkhon Baatar, still angry, would have stood over him to make sure he performed the operation, but Sarantuya gently pulled him back. In matters like this she had the authority, and she could see, from the way that the strange foreign man was examining his patient, that he knew what he was doing.

  Without any other anaesthetic to hand Helen Frances had been made to drink a pitcher of nermel. At two in the morning, she was delivered safely of a baby girl.

  When he had stitched up the wound, and satisfied himself that Helen Frances was as well as she could be—he could think of no better salve for the pain she had undergone than the baby, which she was holding to her breast—Nellie took his hand and led him out of the ger. Together they slumped against the felt wall. Nellie wrapped round them the thick goat-hair blanket she had brought out with her. She snuggled against him. For a while they said nothing, looking up at the bright stars.

  Then Nellie kissed him. ‘You did well there, Edward. I’m proud of you,’ she said.

  Airton did not reply. Nellie felt the motion of his shoulders.

  ‘Is it weeping you are, you silly man?’ she said, squeezing him. ‘There’s no reason for weeping now.’

  ‘I’m—so—ashamed,’ he said, through his tears.

  Nellie nodded, and smiled. ‘Well, you have been behaving a little oddly for a while, my dear,’ she said. ‘There’s no denying that, but we’ve all been through terrible times, and you made up for it tonight.’

  ‘I—can’t forgive myself,’ he said.

  ‘Oh, we’ve all behaved badly at times,’ she said. ‘I know I’ve made mistakes. I’m not always as strong as I appear, you know.’

  He did not reply. She shook his knee. ‘We’re together, Edward. We survived. All of us. We survived. And we’re safe here, with these kind people. Don’t you just know that there’s a Providence out there among those beautiful stars that is continuing to take care of us? Be thankful. Don’t be so glum.’

  ‘It’s Manners,’ he said quietly.

  ‘Manners?’ she repeated, startled. ‘What’s he got to do with anything all of a sudden?’

  ‘
I believe that I misjudged him,’ said the doctor hoarsely. ‘I convinced myself that he was a murderer—that he’d killed the Mandarin because he wanted his gold.’

  ‘So? That’s what he did, didn’t he, the beast?’

  ‘I’m not sure now,’ said the doctor, an agonised expression on his face. ‘He told me when he left the engine cab that he was going to the Mandarin’s compartment to save the Mandarin, to save us—and in my hatred of him I did not believe him.’

  ‘Well, he was a liar. We know that.’ She paused, looking at him with a puzzled expression on her face. ‘Edward, why are you going on about Mr Manners?’

  ‘But don’t you see? You yourself told me. The shots you heard in the compartment were separated by a long interval. You said there was a single shot, followed much, much later by others. I don’t believe it could have been Manners who fired that first shot. He was with me in the cab. He told me that Chamberlain Jin was an enemy. You see, I believe it was probably Chamberlain Jin who murdered the Mandarin, and therefore what Manners told me was the truth.’

  Nellie was silent for a while. ‘I see,’ she said. ‘You think that we’ve maligned a brave man?’

  ‘I do,’ whispered the doctor, staring into the valley. ‘God help me for what I’ve done.’

  ‘It’s—unfortunate that we thought ill of him, Edward.’ Nellie picked her words carefully. ‘We’ll—we’ll tell Helen Frances in due course, naturally. Yes, that would be right and proper. In fact, it would be better if she could think well of her little girl’s father. But I don’t see for the life of me why you are torturing yourself about this. There’s nothing you could have done to change what happened. Mr Manners is dead. He was killed.’

  ‘He wasn’t,’ whispered the doctor, his eyes still staring. ‘He was alive when I found him. Severely wounded, but alive.’