The Forbidden Orchid

by Sharon Biggs Waller

  “Papa, we’ll need more horses. I’m going with you. I’m well enough. Pru said so,” I said. If Papa said no, I would hire a horse myself and go. I would not let him leave me behind.

  “Out of the question. Especially with Duffey out there threatening people.” He shook his head. “No.”

  Alex piped up. “We won’t leave Elodie, sir.”

  Papa glared at Alex. “If you would have taken care of her in the first place, Alex, then maybe we wouldn’t be having this conversation,” he said. “You assured me you’d look after Elodie, and look how well you’ve taken care of her so far.”

  Ching Lan stared at the floor, her long hair obscuring her face. I couldn’t tell what she was thinking, and I wondered if she hid her emotions behind that long waterfall of hair.

  “In actual fact, I think Ching Lan should come with us,” I said. “So we’ll need four horses.”

  Ching Lan lifted her head. Excitement snapped in her eyes, only to be extinguished a second later. Perhaps she didn’t dare to hope.

  “Ching Lan?” Papa asked. “Why would she want to come along with us?”

  “I don’t,” Ching Lan said.

  Pru looked anxious. She stood up for a moment and then sat back down.

  “Pru said she knows a lot about medicinal herbs, and I thought I could learn a bit from her,” I said quickly, thinking on my feet. “Maybe collect some things for myself.”

  “Elodie, we don’t have time to go chasing round the country-side after this and that,” Papa said. “We have one thing to accomplish. You can see your friend when we come back through. One female on a journey is enough.”

  Ching Lan and I glanced at each other at the same time. I’m sure my expression mirrored hers. One female on a journey is enough.

  I tried again. “I think—”

  “I have enough to do with looking after you, Elodie. My goodness, you’ve fainted twice already. You have no idea how to shoot a gun, and I doubt Ching Lan does, either. You’d have to be able to defend yourself—”

  “I can defend myself! I did it once with Luther Duffey. That’s how he got the scar on his face. And I can do it again.” My hands were suddenly damp. I wasn’t sure at all that I could do it again, but I was desperate for Papa to believe that was true.

  “What are you talking about?” Papa asked.

  “Mr. Duffey tried to stop me from going to you, and I slashed his face with my billhook. It’s how I got away from him.”

  “I’m sure you caught him by surprise,” Papa said, dismissing me with a wave of his hand. “Believe me, he won’t let it happen again.”

  “Oh, I see!” I said. “It was luck, pure and simple.” It irritated me in the extreme that Papa refused to believe that I was capable of doing anything of worth and value aside from staying at home and looking after my sisters. “I don’t know why you bothered educating me at all, Papa, if you truly feel that I’m incapable of doing anything.”

  “Don’t be ridiculous, Elodie,” he said. “Education has nothing to do with using a weapon.”

  Ching Lan watched our argument unfold, fascinated. As though she’d never seen a father and daughter quarrel before.

  “Do you think a female incapable of shooting a gun?” I said. “Must a person wear trousers to do so?”

  His answer was evident in his silence.

  “Do you think me so feeble that I haven’t the wherewithal to pull a trigger?” I asked.

  “I’m sure you do,” he said in a soothing tone, the kind you’d use on a four-year-old who wanted to play with the older children. “However, in answer to your question, guns are not for females. I would be concerned that you’d lose control of the weapon and it would be used against you.”

  “I don’t agree, Mr. McGregor, if you don’t mind my saying so,” Pru said. “You seem hell-bent on allowing your daughter to remain ignorant.” She tsked. “I don’t think that’s good for her at all. How else will she learn to look after herself if you don’t teach her? Why, my own father had me shooting pigeons when I was six.”

  I held my breath, fully expected Papa to tell Pru to go to the devil, but instead he looked as though he was considering her suggestion.

  “It wouldn’t do any harm for her to understand how the weapon works,” Alex said. “I’m happy to teach her.”

  “So if Ching Lan and I can shoot a gun, you’ll let us go?” I asked.

  Ching Lan sat up straight in her chair, that light of hope back in her eyes.

  “Well . . . I . . .” Papa looked cornered.

  “That’s settled, then,” Pru said, smiling. She stood up and went to the bookshelf, pulling out the copy of Northanger Abbey and taking out a small bottle from behind it. “I do have some whiskey stashed away after all. This calls for a celebration.”

  BEFORE SUNSET EVERYONE EXCEPT PRU, WHO WAS CALLED AWAY to tend a sick child, went to the outskirts of the village to an area of the forest where no one was about. Alex showed Ching Lan and me how the revolver worked, pointing out all the pieces, and how to insert the bullet. He shot the gun himself a couple of times so we could grow used to the sound of it.

  I hated it.

  The birds immediately stopped chattering after Alex fired the gun. The report was so loud that I wanted to run from it. I clapped my hands over my ears, but that was useless; the blast was impossible to blot out. The acrid smell of cordite burned my eyes.

  Ching Lan took the gun next. She was so tiny that the first time the gun went off her head snapped back with the recoil. She blinked and stared at the gun in her hand, fascinated. She shot a few more bullets, hitting the target once or twice. As I watched her, the panic in me grew and grew. I didn’t want to shoot the gun, but I’d made the bargain. Now I would be left behind, and Ching Lan would take my place. My heart started to pound as I made myself stand still, arranging my face into an expression of eagerness that I hoped matched Ching Lan’s.

  “Here, myshka. Now you try.” Alex handed me the revolver and stepped back.

  I took the gun. It was heavier than I had imagined it to be, the handle warm from Ching Lan’s palm. I held it out, as Alex showed me. But then the image of the orchid thief appeared in my mind’s eye. He cowered in front of me, his eyes widening in fear. I saw him crumpling to the ground as the bullet pierced his body and extinguished his life.

  I felt as though I held death in my hand.

  I handed the gun back to Alex, unfired. “Take it away from me. I don’t want any part of it.”

  “What’s this?” Papa said. “You claim you’re not feeble. And now you’re trembling, afraid of a gun?”

  “I’m not afraid of the gun,” I said. I’m afraid that I’ll use it, I wanted to tell him. And I’m afraid of who I’ll become if I do. “I don’t like it.”

  Ching Lan took the gun. “She’s too scared. Let her be. I’ll try it again.” Ching Lan shot the gun again and again until Papa stepped in and told her to stop wasting bullets.

  I felt a fool. Where had my courage gone? I had stood up to Dr. Thumpston and defended myself from the orchid thief. But now, when I needed it, my bravery had abandoned me. Perhaps Papa was right. I should stay with Pru. Ching Lan and Alex could look after Papa.

  “She needs something she’s more comfortable with,” Alex said. “Something that’s less lethal. How about a rock sling?”

  Papa thought. “Hmm, excellent notion, Alex. It would be nothing for her to keep a sling and some rocks in her pocket.”

  “A sling? You mean like how David slew Goliath?” I asked, intrigued.

  “Exactly,” Alex said. “I can make you one from a bit of string; it’s easily done. My brother taught me how when I was ten. We used to sling rocks at wood pigeons and bring them home for our mother to turn into pies.”

  Alex went off and returned with a long length of string and a handful of small round rocks. He made two loops in
the middle of the string and wove the ends over and under the loops, like pie lattice, until he’d created a little pouch about four inches wide. He tied a loop at one end of the string to form a little tether.

  “Here’s how it works,” he said. “The rock goes in this pouch here and you put the tether over your finger so you don’t lose the sling when you throw it. Stand back a bit, and I’ll show you.” Alex held the sling in his right hand and held the pouch in his left. “Swing your arm up and release the rock across your body.” Alex’s arm whipped around, and the sling made a primal buzzing sound as he let the rock fly. It smashed into the very tree he’d aimed for; the sound of it echoed through the forest.

  “Ai yah!” Ching Lan shouted.

  Papa applauded. “Well done, my boy. A true shot!”

  “You’re very good at this!” I said.

  Alex grinned, reloading the sling. “I haven’t done it since I was a child. Maxim and I used to get up to all sorts of mischief with our slings.” He flung the weapon, and the rock once again hit the tree. I loved watching Alex. His face shone with joy, and I could almost see him as a ten-year-old boy, him and his brother playing with carefree abandon.

  “Now you,” Alex said. He stood behind me and directed me through the motions.

  “Stand well back, Papa,” I said.

  “If I could stand in the next village, I would,” he replied. He tried to sound stern, but his grin gave away his merriment. He crossed his arms and sat down on a tree stump a few yards back. “Come along now. Impress me.”

  It wasn’t as easy as it looked. I fumbled the first try, and the rock dropped out of the little pouch before I had a chance to throw it. And then I smacked Alex in the shoulder with the sling as I whipped it back. Alex was a patient teacher, and he corrected me gently each time. Papa tossed in a few suggestions, and Ching Lan called out encouragement. And finally, a miracle—I threw the stone. It whizzed off into the forest, striking nothing, but it went in the right direction. I kept trying until it was too dark to see. I never hit the tree, but I grew closer each time. I felt as exhilarated as I had when I climbed to the masthead on the Osprey, and I wanted to keep practicing. My shoulder ached from spinning my arm, and a little blister had formed on my ring finger where the tether had rubbed, but truly I hadn’t had so much fun in my life.

  “It’s not the easiest thing in the world to master, but if you practice, you’ll be quite good at it,” Alex said, rolling up the sling. He stuffed it into my skirt pocket. “Keep this and a few stones with you all the time, myshka.”

  “Thank you, Alex,” I said, glancing toward Papa. “For everything.”

  He kissed me on the forehead. “Happy to help, myshka.”

  “I suppose we’ll need four horses now,” Papa said.

  PRU’S MAN HAD DONE HIS JOB. TWO MULES AND FOUR HORSES WERE waiting for us at sunset, as well as our soldiers—three of them, who sat atop small Chinese horses. The man renting our horses looked at Ching Lan blankly when she enquired about their names for me. So we called the mules Ink and Nod, and the horses Tinker, Beau, Blossom, and Piggy.

  We stuck to the tea road for most of our ten-day journey, which meandered through mountainous bamboo forests. We rode along hillsides that sheared off into ravines, where waterfalls cascaded, feeding the streams below. The shade of the bamboo forest was welcoming because the days had grown unbearably hot and humid. We’d leave our camp each morning before the sun rose and keep our animals to a walk to preserve their energy. The landscape was alive with sounds I’d never heard before. The noise that intrigued me most of all was a loud bark, almost like a dog’s, that echoed repeatedly through the canyons. Ching Lan said the noise was made by a tiny deer called a muntjac, which lived in the forest.

  Pru’s bloomer suit fit me perfectly. She had even given me a straw hat like hers, and my new outfit made all the difference in the world. The hat protected me against the worst of the sun, and the lightweight bloomer suit was a relief after carrying about a long wool skirt and clinging petticoats.

  I found I looked forward to riding. I didn’t have much chance to ride in Edencroft as we didn’t own horses, and I discovered I loved the feeling of freedom the horse gave me. And I loved sweet little Blossom. She greeted me with a whicker every morning, her velvety mouth nipping the bit of turnip that I always saved her from my breakfast bowl from my palm. But still, my muscles were not used to riding. I dismounted at the end of the first few days aching in every bone, wincing whenever I sat down, until finally my muscles adjusted.

  Ching Lan’s reticence about speaking to Chinese men apparently did not extend to Western men, as she prattled away to Papa, ignoring his stony silence and pointing out plants that she knew. After a time, he began to take an interest in what she said, his posture relaxing. I heard him laugh, a single chuckle, barely qualifying as such, but a laugh all the same. I should have been glad to see this, but instead I felt jealous that she had a way of drawing Papa out when I could not. I was beginning to regret inviting her along. She talked to Papa and Alex in Chinese, deliberately leaving me out of the conversation. I often saw her whispering with Alex. Worse, she and Alex would venture off the trail, returning with plants. Medicinal plants that Alex helped Ching Lan sort and bundle.

  I felt an outsider with my own father and husband.

  As that day with the revolver had shown, Ching Lan and I were as different as chalk and cheese. Making camp and sleeping on stony ground did not bother her. When I handed her a morning cup of tea mixed with powdered milk, she refused to drink it. She dumped it on the ground and remade a cup of her own, using an elaborate ritual. She chipped leaves from a black brick of pressed tea she kept in her bag. This she poured hot water over, steeping the leaves in a small clay pot, and finally drinking the resulting brew from a tiny little cup that looked like it belonged in a child’s tea set. Papa and Alex joined Ching Lan in this preparation until only I was left drinking tea with milk and sugar. I tried a sip of Alex’s tea when Ching Lan wasn’t looking, and I found I liked it. It was smoky and earthy. If mountains and clouds had flavors, they would taste of that tea.

  Ching Lan took over my position as cook after sniffing at the contents of our tinned goods and scrunching up her nose in distaste. Each time we made camp, she’d head off to a nearby village and return with a slew of vegetables in a sack and a newly killed rooster, still dressed in its feathers and dripping blood from the hole where its head used to be. I asked her if she’d killed the rooster herself, and she stared at me in that incredulous way I’d grown to know as typically Ching Lan.

  All the vegetables and meat were mixed together and flavored with exotic spices, the likes of which I’d never tasted. They were salty and sweet at the same time. And some were fiery hot, causing my mouth to burn and my eyes to water. When I tried to separate the ingredients out, Ching Lan chided me and said it was bad manners to go searching for the best bits.

  Ching Lan, Papa, and Alex ate their meal with two slender sticks, which they called kuaizi, held between their fingers and employed like tongs. Ching Lan handed me a pair of kuaizi, and I fumbled with them, unable to make headway. I watched how the others used them, and it seemed simple enough, but I could not make them work. Alex showed me how to hold them between my fingers, securing the bottom one with my thumb. But morsel after morsel slipped from my sticks.

  “Use a spoon,” Papa said.

  “I can do it,” I said, stubbornly refusing to give in.

  “She’ll starve, Alex, if you don’t help her,” Ching Lan said, erupting into giggles.

  Alex plucked a slice of chicken from my bowl and held it out for me. “I shall feed you, myshka.”

  Ching Lan laughed again. “In China only old men and babies are fed. Are you a baby now, Elodie?”

  That was it. I’d had enough of Ching Lan making mirth. I flung the sticks down and stood up. “I hope you’ve had a good laugh at my expense.”


  “Wah! It’s bad luck to throw kuaizi on the ground!”

  I wanted to shake her, and I was afraid I would, so I stormed off instead.

  I heard Alex say something and then get up to follow me.

  “You don’t have to come after me, Alex,” I said. “Finish your supper. Enjoy your friend, why don’t you?” I was so angry I could have spat feathers. I had enough on my plate at the moment, and now I had her to deal with. And after I’d been so kind as to ask her along. Well, see what kindness gave a person. . . .

  “Why does she hate me so much?” I blurted out. “She won’t speak to me, and when she does, she laughs at me.”

  “You mustn’t be so sensitive. Chinese people are very direct. I know it takes a bit of getting used to.”

  “I don’t think I’m being sensitive.”

  Alex looked uncomfortable, and indeed I felt bad about putting him in the middle of our quarrel. “You never speak to her, either, Elodie. The two of you are worlds away from each other. Perhaps you can find a way to stand on common ground.” He took my hand in his. His fingers were warm over mine, and his touch soothed me, as it always did.

  “I’ll be fine,” I said. “Go back to the campsite. I’ll be along directly.”

  “Don’t stay out here after the sun sets,” Alex said, looking unsure. “There are tigers about.”

  I went to the shore to splash water on my face and then sat down cross-legged on the shore, looking out at the water.

  I heard steps on the gravel behind me.

  “I said I’d be along directly, Alex.”

  “It’s not Alex.”

  I turned. Ching Lan stood, shifting from foot to foot, biting her lip.

  “Oh, it’s you. What do you want? Come to poke fun at me again?”