The Book of Bones

by Natasha Narayan

  “I not offended.” Yin said.

  “I mean, what the hell do we do now?”

  I opened my mouth to speak. Then closed it again. Rapidly I ran over our problems. One of us was poisoned, we had to find this Book of Bones thing, we were stranded in a foreign land and we had Yin—spy or helper, angel or devil? Clearly an invalid, whatever else she was. How could we even search for this Book—assuming we knew how to get to Henan and the monastery—with Yin in her current state? She needed rest, care, soup—gallons of soup. Soup was meant to be good for sick souls, wasn’t it?

  We were in a right old mess.

  “We’re in a mess,” Waldo said, echoing my thoughts.

  I glared at him. “Talk about stating the obvious.”

  “It never hurt did it? Telling the truth.”

  “No!” a small voice piped up. “We are not in mess.”

  It was Yin. “Today we go to tailors. We must buy Chinese clothes, more practical for our journey. Tomorrow we go Peking. We find help there for the Book of Bones.”

  As one we stared at her, astonished. She came up to my chin, but here she was coolly making plans for us. The nerve of it. Waldo bristled a little and even Rachel looked dismayed.

  “Keep quiet, Yin,” Waldo said, pushing away his plate of dumplings. “This is serious talk.”

  “Sorry,” the child looked down, flushing.

  “Why on earth Peking?” I asked. “The monastery we need to get to is in Henan.”

  “Yin, you can’t travel,” Rachel burst in over me. “You’re sick. You need days—no, weeks—of rest.”

  “I am quite well,” Yin said. “I say Peking, for Henan is difficult and dangerous place. I live there and I know—there are many warlords and bandits. We will go to Peking to get help—and from Peking we go to monastery in the mountain.”

  “It’s ludicrous to start taking orders from a little girl,” Waldo said.

  This time Yin did not hang her head but stared back at Waldo. “I am a girl, little. I agree with this. But I am Chinese. I know this country and have many friends who can help us. I know there is much danger. Please listen.”

  I could see the sense of what Yin was saying—if she wasn’t trying to lead us into a trap. We couldn’t just wait in Shanghai for the poison to snuff out one of our lives, we had to act. Perhaps going to Peking was our best option. Besides, it made sense to buy comfortable Chinese clothes, because it would be easier for us to blend in with the natives.

  “Trust me,” Yin said, looking in my eyes. “Please.”

  “Your arm too long. Like monkey,” the tailor said to me, measuring from the tip of my fingers to my shoulder. He addressed Yin in rapid Mandarin. From the disgruntled tone of his voice I had the feeling that he was not exactly complimenting your friend Kit Salter. Yin answered him with a few soothing words, as if she was excusing me. Frankly, I didn’t see what the tailor had to boast about. He was a sallow little fellow with a shaved forehead and a plait hanging down his back. His gray beard was almost as long as his plait, and he had hair growing out of his ears and nose. Altogether he looked as if he could have done with several haircuts.

  This was the fifth tailor shop we had visited. We had started with the elegant emporiums near Bubbling Well Road, lined with bolts of turquoise and pink silks and richly embroidered tunics. Now we were in a dirty warren of streets near the Dongtai market. This was a glimpse of a different China from the grand European city: cages of songbirds, the click, clack of elderly mah-jong players gambling their years of hard work away, and tattered clothes drying on bamboo poles. The problem was that Chinese clothes were not cut for our larger frames. Waldo, in particular, was almost a giant by local standards.

  This shop, lined with clothes for dock laborers and river folk, was our last chance. To tell the truth, I was very keen to have a change of clothes. My serge traveling dress was stiff with sweat and the high-necked lace blouse I wore underneath was scratchy. The loose peasant trousers and jacket would make a welcome change. The others had at last found suitable garments so it was just me left.

  In the tiny changing area I shrugged on the loose blue tunic that the shopkeeper handed to me. When I came out Waldo whistled sarcastically and Isaac gave me a funny look. In the mirror I could see that my arms stuck out from the sleeves. Never mind. I felt free in the loose, shapeless trousers and tunic. Chinese ladies might have their feet bound, but at least their clothes were comfortable.

  We left the tailor’s shop dressed like Chinese laborers, with our old garments parceled up in newspaper. A small boy was sent to deliver them to our boarding house. I strode after Yin, relishing the spicy smells wafting down to us in the light breeze. We passed an old lady frying noodles in a great iron pan—they looked crisp and tasty.

  “Want to try some?” I asked.

  “Kit, you’re mad,” Rachel protested. “You’ll get worms or, or …”

  “I’m already poisoned, most like. Besides I’m famished.”

  “The food is good,” Yin said. “We must eat.”

  She was right. The sun was setting and we hadn’t eaten for hours. It was strange. As soon as Yin said it was all right, everyone queued for the noodles. When it was Kit’s idea, it was another matter. I didn’t really begrudge it. I had been watching her for the whole day, musing on her motives. Nothing new had struck me, though at one time I had wondered if she had some dark aim in dressing us like the natives.

  Anyway, the bowl of noodles I gulped down just then was lovely. Long, slippery worms in a salty brown broth, served with steaming greens and prawns. Even Rachel, so unadventurous with food, was enjoying it. Perhaps I would have to add a Chinese restaurant to the Indian establishment I planned to open. The people of Great Britain would be in for a culinary treat.

  My mood was lightening, my attitude to Yin melting. Perhaps it was simply the result of a full belly. I am notoriously easy to bribe with food. Maybe I had been too suspicious of the girl. Maybe the death of the volunteer had just been an unlucky accident. Perhaps we should follow the strange child to Peking. I was thinking thus, licking the last drops of sauce from my bowl, when Yin turned to us.

  “We must hurry,” she said.

  “Oh? Where?” I looked at the pink horizon. “It’s time to turn in for the night, I would say.”

  “No,” she said, and muttered something under her breath.

  “A nightclub?” Waldo and Isaac burst out in unison. “Great idea.”

  “Why on earth would we want to go—” I began, before Waldo and Isaac cut me off. A new foreboding gripped me. Where did the child want to take us at this time of night? Was it some seedy den? It felt suspiciously like a trap.

  “I have the sense. There is no time to lose. Come now!”

  With that the child disappeared into the crowd at the mouth of an alley, leaving us no option but to follow her.

  Chapter Eighteen

  My fears evaporated as Yin led us back into the European city. At night Shanghai was even more exotic, flaring with gaslight, humming with the strains of a thousand competing orchestras. Nightclubs spilled out revelers. Two lovely ladies dressed in silk ball gowns chattered in French to each other on the steps of the Astor House Hotel. A haughty young blond in fox furs and a satin evening gown strode into a club where they were playing a Russian mazurka. Feet tapped, drums thrummed. Sweet, musky perfumes wafted in the breeze and the very air was intoxicating.

  “Why don’t we visit one of the tea dances?” I suggested, as we passed the Astor. This was one of the grandest of the stone buildings, with vast arched windows. A ball was in full swing, with enough jewels on display to light up the night skies. Liveried doormen guarded the entrance, but I was sure I could talk our way in.

  “No.” Yin shook her head. “Not.”

  We passed the wide boulevards, the streets full of bejeweled ladies and dashing men in bow ties. Instead of entering one of these bright places, we turned down streets that became progressively narrower and darker. Yin was leading us down the
murkiest alleys, away from light and safety.

  “Yin,” Rachel grabbed the striding girl, “I don’t like this.”

  “We must go.”

  “It’s not safe.”

  “You trust,” she replied, shaking her off.

  Now we were in another alley, crowded, but with a certain grace. Wooden houses teetered together, their tiered roofs carved into the shapes of dragons and birds. Banners and flags were strung across the street. Red paper lanterns hung down from many houses and plangent music drifted through the air. Chinese ladies, their lips painted vermilion and cheeks rouged, lounged here and there, dressed in tight silk dresses. Many had bound feet, so tiny they tottered rather than walked. The streets were packed with Europeans as well as Chinese. There was something in the air that I didn’t like.

  “Yin.” My heart was pounding with fear that the girl was leading us into a trap. “This isn’t a good place.”

  She darted forward. We were forced to follow even though Waldo and Isaac also looked scared. As we struggled through a knot of laborers carrying brightly colored paper lanterns, Yin disappeared.

  “Yin!” we called desperately. “Where are you?”

  From a doorway draped in crimson silk came a faint cry. We ducked through the hangings. The fug made my eyes sting. That sweet-sickly tang, which I’d noticed before in the streets of Shanghai, was in the air. Now it was so thick you could taste it in the back of your throat. Through the coils of smoke we made out our friend, flitting toward the back of the room.

  Small cubicles, each containing a lone Chinaman, were dotted around the den. Most had their foreheads shaved and plucked till they were high and smooth, with their hair plaited at the back into a pigtail. They were lying about or smoking long clay pipes. The gloom was broken by oil lamps scattered on low tables beside each cubicle. Something was bubbling and crackling in the lamps. The stuff gave off that sickly tang. Mixed with the smell of sweat and grease it made me want to retch.

  I recoiled, almost falling into the silk hangings. Smoke was in my nose, eyes, throat—so heavy I was gasping for breath.

  Rachel’s nails dug into my arm. “What is this place?”

  “Just a—”

  “It’s an opium den.” She cut me off.

  Yin had darted to the back, where I could see bundles wrapped in rugs, scattered on a wooden platform.

  “We’d better follow her.”

  “No,” Rachel said. “Absolutely no way in this world am I going in there.”

  A man loomed over Waldo’s shoulder, leering at Rachel with gluey eyes. “Wantchee smoke? Wantchee eat?”

  “Get away!” Rachel snapped, backing away.

  “We’ve got to stay together.” Hurriedly I pulled her after me into the back of the den where Yin had vanished. I caught sight of her by the wooden platform, bending over a bundle, which I now realized was a human being wrapped in blankets. There were half a dozen poor beasts, lost to this world, slumped in their swoon. Some had spittle running out of their mouths, others’ eyes lolled vacantly. It was an ugly scene. I wanted to get away as fast as I could. Trouble was, I felt sluggish. My legs were wobbly. I badly needed to rest, breathe properly.

  “No worse than a gin palace,” Isaac said, his shaking voice contradicting his bold words. “At least these poor wretches have gone to sleep rather than starting fights.”

  “I feel odd,” Rachel said. Beads of sweat stood out on her face.

  “Me too,” Isaac mumbled.

  My vision was blurry, with lines forming and flowing toward me. Everything shimmered, glowing with its own power. I wanted to drop down onto that large soft bed. Why not? That sweet flute music. I was tired, so tired. Why not rest a little? Catch my breath. I saw the water, the cool blue of the river Cherwell. My Jesse, my good old mare Jesse, would want to rest awhile. My knees could only stand so much galloping over Port Meadow and through the woods …

  “Kit!” From far away, I heard a voice.

  “Who wants her?” I muttered.

  “Enough of this.” Waldo’s face was an inch from mine. He had a pimple at the corner of his nose. A huge red pimple.

  “Listen to me now!” he pinched me hard on the check. Shocked, I jerked away.

  “Get up.”

  I realized I had sunk down on the platform. Shakily I tried to stand up but just swayed back and forth.

  “It’s the opium, you silly ninny,” Waldo grabbed my arm. “It’s gone to your head. You always were soft up there.”

  Isaac and Rachel were staring at me through wide, shocked eyes. They looked very alike, dark, curly-haired, judging me. It was as if I had done something wrong.

  Roughly Waldo heaved me up. I stood against him, panting a little, still feeling woozy.

  “This is foul,” he said. “We’re leaving.”

  “All right. No need to shout.”

  Waldo was pushing me. I blinked, shaking off the clouds in my brain.

  “I can manage, Waldo.”

  Yin was prodding a bundle of rags. As I moved away, her hand reached out, clutching at me, though Waldo was pulling the other way.

  “Come,” she pleaded. She was surprisingly strong.

  “No.” I tried to shake her off.

  “You come.” She pulled at my arm, tearing the fabric, while Waldo pulled on the other side. Yin’s grip was stronger and I was forced back to the platform. The lumps of rags rolled over and I was shocked to see white skin and pale hair. I stood over the thing.

  “Mrs. Glee?” I said at last.

  Lying on her back, Mrs. Glee looked at me but didn’t seem to see.

  “It’s not,” Waldo said to me. “Can’t be—”

  “Shush.”

  “That really you, Mrs. Glee?” Waldo asked.

  The woman’s face was gray. She was unwashed and emaciated, in the grip of the drug. All her jewelry was gone, the gold wedding ring she always wore had vanished. She looked at us dumbly, her eyes dull. As we stood over her, urging her, something sparked. She realized for the first time who we were.

  “We’re taking you away,” Waldo said.

  She shook her head.

  “You’re coming with us,” he insisted.

  “It’s no use.”

  “We’re leaving. Now.”

  Together we pulled Mrs. Glee up and hitched her between our shoulders. Limply, she allowed herself to be dragged away. We got to the exit without attracting much interest as everyone in the den was in their own poppy-tainted world. But at the door a broad Chinaman in padded trousers and maroon jacket barred our way. He had beady eyes and a pigtail tied with red satin.

  He grunted something at us in his own language.

  “We’re taking this woman, like it or not,” Waldo growled, with Isaac scowling at his side.

  “Wantchee 100 yuan for smoke.”

  “Pay the man, Rachel.”

  Rachel handed over the coins and we dragged our governess out onto the street. The air blew the last opium fumes out of my mind. Waldo’s eyes were upon me as he lifted Mrs. Glee through the dirt and spent fireworks. Flushing a little, I looked away. Not your finest hour, Kit, I told myself. I couldn’t understand the dream state that had come over me in the den. All the others were gagging on the fumes, but they were not overcome.

  I had no time to brood on my shortcomings as we had to flee this place as fast as we could. Somehow we found a cab and managed to heave ourselves in. The horse clopped its way through the throng of painted women and staggering opium addicts while I sat stiffly overcome with a mixture of pity and disgust. Mrs. Glee was prone, seemingly unaware.

  We journeyed out of the Chinese quarter back to the broad boulevards of the International Settlement. We had almost reached our destination on Bubbling Well Road when Mrs. Glee woke up and looked at me.

  “You can’t do it,” she said to me.

  I looked away.

  “Do what?” Rachel and Waldo answered in unison.

  “Get away from them.”

  “From whom?�
�� Rachel asked.

  “The Brothers. I tried and tried. When Mr. Glee died I thought I could do it. I ran and ran. I ran so far that I thought they would never find me. But they did. I was a housekeeper then. They found me and they gave me that stuff.”

  “The Bakers fed you opium?” I broke in.

  She nodded. “They trapped me with that stuff. I need it more than life itself. It is the only reason I have to go on.”

  “Well, your path is clear,” Rachel said slowly. “You must give up the poppy and escape the Bakers.”

  “I can’t do it.”

  “If you don’t try, you’ll never be free.”

  “I won’t. You can’t make me. What’s the point? There’s nothing left for me any more.”

  I bit back the retort that was on my lips, and as I did my eye fell on Yin. She was coiled in the corner of the carriage, a glint of light under her half-closed lashes. As always, remote from our agitation. Old doubts—and new questions—came crashing into my opium-dimmed mind. How had she known Mrs. Glee was in that den? Were they in secret contact? It seemed Yin could sniff out misery just as a cat sniffs out vermin. This was another example of the feline way Yin prowled through life.

  Chapter Nineteen

  “I’m not sure I like her, and I definitely don’t trust her,” I said.

  “Shush,” Rachel whispered. “She can hear us.”

  Mrs. Glee was asleep in the big bed beside Yin, who did not seem to mind the stale smell coming from her. The boys had gone to their room and Rachel and I talked in whispers as we lay on our hard mattresses.

  I raised myself on an elbow and looked at the two of them: Yin was breathing regularly, her back to the odorous Mrs. Glee.

  “She’s asleep.”

  “Oh, Kit, how can you not like Yin? As for trusting her, she saved our governess.”

  “Yes, but how did she know she was in that den?”

  “She has these feelings. You know that, Kit. Why do you distrust her so?”

  “Someone has to look out for us, make sure we’re not walking blindly into a trap.”