He prayed to the God he did not believe in that he was wrong, and that his luck would hold for one more while.
11
The War of the Bones
The Wild Wa are small and dark, and in their own villages they welcome the sun like all mountain people, but when raiding they use the night. In Ranga were forty warriors above the age of twelve, and though the season was winter, with the monsoon yet weeks off, they had spoken as one, saying, “Let us make our raid, let us take alien heads.”
They oiled the crossbows, cleaned their few rifles, polished their scarce ammunition with superstitious fervor and sharpened their long knives. Their women wove string bags for fetching home prizes. Only then did they forgather for divination with chicken bones. They had made plain to the gods their intentions; now the gods would comment.
The chicken bones fell crazily into the flames, and one split with a loud pop, which was unusual. One writhed. One was scorched black. One had burned away to a sharp point. The headman was emphatic: they would make a saga for later generations. This was not a raid: it was a war. Unlike most of the Wild Wa, the headman was tattooed, and one of his tattoos was of a viper: they saw now that the bent and twisted bone had cooled to the form of a serpent, and they made hearty acclaim.
When the intruders were a day’s march from Ranga, and closely tracked, a feast of roast dog was prepared. All shared in this feast—men and women and children—and the scouts and sentries were recalled in turn to come and share. More than twenty dogs were eaten, and each warrior ate one dog testicle, each warrior ate one eye; the teeth would be pierced for necklaces, with the large eye-teeth awarded to heroes. That night was much coupling. That night a man with one wife—this was usual—would share her, and a man with more than one wife—this was less common—would share them all.
Next day they dozed. Until dusk they lay napping, ears pricked and skin tingling, waking only for water, or for an obeisance to the household god, the gem, the skull, the petrified root. All performed a last, and again a last, ritual inspection of their weapons. At dusk they blackened themselves with kohl and earth, and donned black loincloths and dark leather sandals. They reviewed the tactical plan and the forest calls to serve as signals; and then they disappeared.
They melted into the night. They stepped soundlessly; they did not speak; they flew through the forest as shadows fly; and at night what shadow can be seen? The fat of the moon was past, and by the time she rose they had surrounded the Chinese. Thuan-yi lay among boughs and needles a man’s length from a Chinese sentry, and was unseen. By sunrise every Wild Wa had found a burrow. They were not to attack until Thuan-yi himself passed the direct order. They would pluck a few pears before shaking the tree.
They saw the Shan emissaries come to the road, and take away a Chinese and an albino. They saw the Shan return, restoring the albino. They understood: the Shan was warning these Chinese, and keeping a hostage.
The Wild Wa waited. Perhaps there would be Shan heads also.
On the day following General Yang’s arrival and Colonel Olevskoy’s visit, Greenwood woke with a headache and made a feeble joke about aspirin or a Wild Wa. Yang was stiff and sore, and looked forward wistfully to his chalet, a thick soft mattress and an eiderdown. In the frank light of sunrise Greenwood saw that the general was old, fatigue wrinkling his features and bowing his shoulders, his movements uncertain, as if he must now think through the simplest procedure.
The two men visited the latrines, returned to the House of the Dead and spruced up with a bucket of water apiece. They were to breakfast with the Sawbwa, a command performance. Greenwood was an early starter, headache or no, but Yang confided that with the years he had found himself taciturn, even morose, until later and later in the day. “Cheer up,” Greenwood instructed him. “A hot bath tonight, servants, a room of your own in Maymyo or even Mandalay.”
“The eternal American optimist.” But Yang managed half a smile.
Naung had hardly slept, roaming his perimeter, he too flitting like a shadow, angrily certain that whatever dispositions had been made were insufficient: there would be a gap in the line, Shwe would smoke himself to sleep, old ammunition would misfire. He had spent an hour of the middle watch with Loi-mae and Lola, the child trustfully asleep, the man and wife gently entwined, affectionate and melancholy.
At first light Naung loped off again. All lay calm before him; peace blessed Pawlu. From the ridges he saw crops, the stream, poppies. From Red Bullock Pass he saw the haze above the Chinese bivouac, and he ate bitterness.
Olevskoy’s troops found a sentry dead and headless. It was scrawny Corporal Pao, who had proudly worn the Order of the Tripod, third class. The men rushed to gawk until Major Wei cursed them and tongue-lashed them back to full alert. Olevskoy was furious. Projecting from the corporal’s chest was a queer tufted missile: a crossbow bolt. “In the open,” Olevskoy snapped at his majors. “As close to the road as possible and as far from cover and ambushes. These bolts can carry a hundred meters. Our machine guns will annihilate anything that moves within that range. Understood? Wide field of fire. This entire side of the road.”
“If the Shan decide to attack,” Major Wei said, “we’ll be like Singapore in nineteen forty-one, with all the guns bearing the wrong way.”
“The Shan won’t attack,” Olevskoy said. “They’ll want us to do their work for them. Have your men dig in, Major.”
The Wild Wa hugged the earth. One chirred like a grasshopper. One squeaked like a swallow. One chittered like a squirrel. They lay embedded on the forest floor, immobile, endlessly patient, like dark desires whose moment has not yet come, but surely will. From one slope to another, raucous peacocks greeted the day.
“My heart is full,” the Sawbwa declaimed. “You have come to Pawlu in our time of need.”
Neither the American nor the general was courageous enough to say the obvious.
“Green Wood,” the Sawbwa went on, “will you return to the house of Loi-mae?”
“It is now the house of Naung also.”
“Well, but ancient custom,” the Sawbwa said.
The infinite morning sky soared above them, clear and blue; far to the east Greenwood could discern the jagged lines of range upon range. It would be a day for gliding hawks, vultures, kites. Owls would shelter in the lower boughs, and hares would forage in short, cautious dashes.
“I shall do no harm,” Greenwood said.
Za-kho approved.
The Sawbwa said, “I have known that since the beginning. I hope you will remain here all your lives.”
In English Yang asked, “Surely he knows our plans?”
Greenwood said, “I believe he knew them yesterday but has forgotten.”
“Really the First Rifle should take command.”
“I am very sure,” Greenwood said, “that he will.”
Naung said, “The roadside is secure and our men well hidden, though thin. Our little squad must not show itself until the aircraft approaches. The Wild Wa will be frightened and confused. They are barbarous and superstitious and will wait for a further sign or interpretation. Nevertheless, we must be quick.”
“And quick back up too, or into East Poppy Field,” Kin-tan reminded him.
“Yes. With or without Green Wood.”
“With,” said Wan.
“Without,” said Mong.
This took them off guard. Mong? Green Wood’s great friend? “You?”
“Eminence,” Mong exclaimed sadly.
“I bet a half-slice of silver he stays,” Kin-yan offered.
“Done,” said Mong.
“Ah, bugger!” said an exasperated Naung. “It is a morning for the gods, and we should be tapping the poppies.”
To Greenwood the wait was interminable, yet not sufficiently so. With Lola he played mumbledy-peg; her shiny blade of northern steel flashed in the sunlight. Loi-mae looked on, and brewed tea; her eyes and Greenwood’s made shy love. She too was harking back. Memory closed his throat. His tommy gun sto
od against the shaded wall. The sun rose, and rose. A distant woodpecker hammered. Greenwood recalled his resolve, so many years ago, never to leave. He drowsed. The morning’s peace was perfect.
At the first sound of firing, all women and children were to rush to the Common Field and mass before the Sawbwa’s slope. At need, the warriors would fall back in a shrinking circle with the children at its center. Against a broad, open field of fire the Wild Wa would be powerless. Only to the west was there no guard. The Wild Wa came always from the east. They had never since the beginning of time crossed to the west of the Little River Mon.
General Yang had indeed grown old at last, overnight it seemed, as if the loss of China were the end of purpose and function. He felt slack all over: cheeks, shoulders, buttocks. His knees ached. Wearily in the House of the Dead he entertained dignitaries. The Sawbwa chattered on about the gods, and Pawlu as a favored spot, a foretaste of heaven. From time to time Za-kho interjected an elegant hum of pious approval.
Eventually all sat upon the ground, Yang again between his footlockers. Ironies depressed him: he would accomplish this last mission and succumb immediately to a kidney ailment. Or the American authorities, in the name of civilization, would take the bones by force and call upon world opinion to justify the larceny. Or this little aircraft would crash in the hills and his own bones and Sin’s would lie mingled for decades, centuries: another puzzle for the great minds of the future. “One,” they would say, “was significantly taller with significantly larger cranial capacity. His maxillaries were hypertrophied, presumably from excessive smiling in the face of defeat.”
The Sawbwa was reminiscing, something about green men and red men. The Sawbwa had asked him a question.
“Forgive me, Sawbwa,” said the general. “You asked …?”
“If the Frenchmen and the Englishmen were now gone from China.”
“Oh yes,” said Yang, “and all their servants too.”
Some of the Wild Wa nibbled at dried meat. Some sucked at sugarcane. At dawn they had licked water from leaves and blades of grass. There was an hour for every thing, and it would make itself known: the cry of a parrot, a bolt of lightning, a breath of hot wind, a ululating whoop from Thuan-yi. Until the gods spoke through Thuan-yi, they would kill for mischief, and for practice.
“I know it is not easy,” Olevskoy said, “but this is a time for patience. Even the fox sniffs the wind twice before racing down a new trail, and we are no foxes. Badgers, more like, dug in and hanging on.”
“We can’t cross the road without negotiating,” Major Wei said.
“And we can’t march down it without being picked off. Or even withdraw to the Salween. And the American said these savages were even thicker to the north. So we defend.”
“Should there come an attack,” Major Wei said, “we must try to slip out, retreat—”
“Withdraw,” Olevskoy said.
“Withdraw in such a way that the attackers will fall upon the village, which will then welcome us.”
“With permission, sir.”
“Sergeant Chang.”
“Is there no way around this village, sir? To the west?”
“I’ll lead the way, Sergeant, if there is. Perhaps the general is even now working out our salvation. Meantime, hug the earth and keep your heads.”
Lola sat on Greenwood’s lap with her flossy hair tickling his neck; they basked in the sun’s benevolence while Loi-mae selected utensils, provender, clothing, and stowed them in reed baskets. Greenwood was cursing himself for an inhuman fool, more vehemently every hour. “If I send for you, come!” The old romantic East!” “Never mind why, do it!” And Pawlu?”
Naung emerged from the shady lane. Greenwood set Lola gently on her feet and rose at once.
Naung said, “To the ridge now. Kin-tan is fetching the general and his chests.”
Greenwood wiped his mouth needlessly with the back of his hand. As always when a brawl loomed he felt large and vulnerable. He hefted the submachine gun, his hand clenching hard; he slung the weapon and said, “All ready. Loi-mae, Lola: we shall take the midday meal together. All four of us.”
Naung smiled a thin acknowledgment of this bravado. “No pack?”
“Only this.” Greenwood slapped the Thompson.
“All the same,” Naung suggested, “make a kind of farewell.”
This was no threat, only a warrior’s precaution. Greenwood took Loi-mae by the shoulders, hesitated while Naung turned away, and then set his forehead to his woman’s. “Only an hour or so.”
“You will come back,” she said softly.
Greenwood released her; decorum mattered. He embraced Lola. The rustle and twitter of the forest seemed sharp and close. The air was piny, aromatic. “Lola, remember all that I have told you. And when some silly Weng-aw carries you off, think of me now and then.”
“I shall think of you always, my father,” Lola said, willing herself brave. “Naung has told me that it would be unnatural to forget you, and he is right.”
“Then try not to forget me for an hour or so,” Greenwood said, tickling her, “and cook me some chicken for the midday meal, and I shall be your young man and smuggle the best bits into your bowl.”
“You always did!” Lola cried, and hugged him tight.
“Come,” Naung said.
Both men shaded their eyes and saw by the remorseless sun that it was indeed time. Naung stepped to Loi-mae for a quick embrace, and they made a queer family of four in the sun-dappled yard of the little bamboo house; and the two men marched down the leafy trail.
The Sawbwa, in his Pawnee gaungbaung, wished them Godspeed. Za-kho had uttered platitudes. Benedictions were intoned. Naung glanced nervously at the sun. So did Greenwood. Some of the women watched; at their belts hung the dah, or a dagger.
Greenwood toted one footlocker, Yang the other. They set off for Red Bullock Pass with Naung leading at a fast pace. Taw-bi the runner met them halfway and reported all quiet. Shwe thought that a Chinese soldier had been killed before dawn but was not certain. “One less,” Naung grunted.
Near a lookout called the Roost on South Slope, a broad ledge of rhododendrons above East Poppy Field, they joined Wan and Kin-tan. General Yang puffed, and mopped his face, and sat on a footlocker in the noonday sun, buttons and buckles winking gold. “Not before we hear the airplane,” Naung said. “You will not so much as show your heads against the ridge until we hear the airplane.”
“And then we dash,” Greenwood said. Wind: not much wind, light air, and that was lucky. Gordon-Cumming could save himself a long taxi—just set down, pick up his passenger, turn and take off. The Chinese would not fire. Greenwood was morally certain that the Chinese would not open fire. “He’ll come from the south. We cut straight for the road.”
“Yes, yes,” Wan said. “The men are in place, the orders have been passed. Only let him come, by the gods.”
Above them a kite mewed. They watched it circle.
“We can only wait,” Kin-tan said.
“Where is Mong?”
“Commanding the North Slope.”
“A cheroot?”
“Not now, you fool.”
General Yang asked, “Everything all right?”
“Perfect,” Greenwood said. “As planned. No time for sentimental farewells, my general, but you’re one of a kind and I’ll see you in Mandalay.”
“Come out with me.”
“Get thee behind me, Satan.”
Abruptly and unaccountably fear assailed Greenwood. The Sawbwa was a silly, sick old man. Za-kho was a bumpkin preacher. Naung might or might not be competent. Greenwood was not sure where error had first crept in, but error mocked him now, bloated and belching, the uninvited guest. The Shan proverb: Events have their ancestors and their progeny. If the past was a mistake, if the future was an idiot child?
He imagined himself on the plane. He imagined fame and fortune.
He had promised to take the midday meal with Loi-mae and Lola. The promise steadi
ed him now. He had so far kept his promises.
Gordon-Cumming homed in on the right stretch of the right road. He had worn sandals, which was a mistake; his big feet were icy on the rudder pedals. He wiggled his toes and began an exploratory descent. His memory had been true. The road was straight enough and long enough.
He saw the Chinese bivouac. Now who the hell are these? Bloody Wa? Drag the strip, old boy.
He barreled in fast, leveled off, saw the uniforms, the faces blooming upward. Chinese!
Then he saw something else, and cursed, and stood the damned ship on its tail.
“Hold your fire,” Olevskoy said. What was wrong here?
“He has come for General Yang,” Major Ho said. “General Yang did not mention an aircraft.”
Major Wei, much saddened, did not speak. They gazed wistfully at the approaching aircraft. It was the color of old pewter. It zoomed sharply.
“God in heaven!” Olevskoy cried, understanding at once. “The fools never knew!”
Thuan-yi lay rigid and asked himself what this sign meant. The thing itself was a foreign thing and known to exist. It was mysterious, like a rifle, and not supernatural like the voice of the storm. But the meaning of its appearance at this moment required priestly explanation, and Thuan-yi contracted in dread. He wondered if a crossbow could kill this thing. They were known to be metallic, and Thuan-yi wondered how thick their hides were.
Naung cried, “Now!”
Greenwood gripped General Yang’s hand and tugged him up. “Time, old friend. You’re on your way.”
The general stood like a stump, disbelieving. He and Greenwood hoisted the footlockers. The engine droned, and as they topped the ridge the roar swelled. Greenwood paused to salute the Argus, good old Gordon-Cumming, good old RAF, never have so many owed so much to so few; then he scanned the foilage for Wild Wa; then he checked the Chinese camp, approving their tight semicircle, doing justice to Olevskoy even as something nagged, something odd, wrong, even as an altered landscape warned him.
The Blue-Eyed Shan Page 25
