Mothership

by Bill Campbell

The cannonade that resounded from the rohani as it fired on the makeshift forts on Pinang Island shook everyone who watched. Two shots, first. The Dao Yi continued to circle the island, and Yap Siew Fei pointed out further targets. Two more thunderclaps, a third, then three in succession, before it fell silent and the Dao Yi finished the circumference of the island.

  Johari and Samy started the cheers, and they howled and capered at seeing the rohani triumphantly fly over the island with no forthcoming retaliation.

  “Congratulations, Fei xiao-jie,” Lu jian-zhang said to his employer, who stood silently at the prow. “You have won the island.”

  She said nothing for a long while, her hair whipping in the wind from the rohani. “Let’s collect the ground troops, then, and finish this.”

  When she stepped foot on the island, she felt distance from her body, still shaken at how quickly everything had happened, and walked so briskly, Johari and Samy almost ran to keep up.

  Behind her trailed an escort of soldiers carrying appropriate firearms, and docking after her ship were surgeons and doctors, running to search and rescue. The boys’ eyes darted everywhere, taking in the blasted structures and forlorn flags flapping in the wind. The forts were destroyed, pieces of wood and stone and fires scattered everywhere, and despite the hum of the Dao Yi, the island was too quiet. Samy muttered a quick prayer. Johari tried very hard not to stare at red stains on the gray and black landscape.

  The rohani hovered above, and Nakhoda Harun’s face was grave as he assessed the damage done to the locals’ houses. There were broken sampans and torn fishing nets everywhere, and even from his height, he could see the wary faces of the fishermen as they emerged from the forest inland and picked through the wrecks of their homes.

  Suffolk House still stood, the pepper plantation surrounding it fairly intact. The attap roof looked quite ruffled, and the windows were blasted in. She pushed open the unlocked door and cautiously entered what she supposed was the parlor.

  Johari reached out for her sleeve. “Ya sayyida.” When she turned to him, he said, “Let me go in first. Samy and I will search the house for you.”

  She nodded, and the two boys made soft scuttling noises as they ran in, light on their feet, from room to room, looking for its inhabitants. But her eyes wandered over the sitting room, taking in the dust-covered furniture, wood splinters and broken porcelain on the floor.

  There was a shoe in the corner, sticking out from behind a cabinet. With a foot still in it. Curious, she walked over and peeped behind the casement.

  The boy was asleep, curled into as tight a ball as he could manage, arms covering his face. She reached over and dusted off his hair, revealing the sandy-brown under the gray dust. He woke up with a cry, his large blue eyes staring at her wildly.

  “I will not harm you,” she said to him softly in his language. “Are you hurt?” The boy Thomas spoke little, and had few answers for her. When she was done questioning him, she left Johari and Samy to feed him properly, although neither of them spoke much English. “That’s good,” she said unsympathetically when they protested. “You can learn from each other.” They fell silent, seeing the grim lines on her face.

  She spent the rest of the day inspecting the whole island, collecting damage reports, hearing the grievances of the locals, and questioning the British soldiers. There were few casualties, cold comfort for the day’s events.

  Captain Francis Light was nowhere to be found.

  Samy and Johari finished their rice, and folded the banana leaves toward themselves in satisfaction. Thomas glanced over and took his cue to do the same. Johari felt a bit sorry for the boy, remembering the time when he himself was friendless. Samy was indifferent; Thomas was an orphan, but he was still white. They awkwardly exchanged phrases, stumbling on conversation and cross-cultural snags.

  Thomas looked to the distance, where a harbor was being built on Pinang. Then his gaze wandered up to the rohani that had landed on top of a hill, no longer quite as imposing. “What is she called?” he asked.

  “Rohani,” Samy answered slowly, making sure Thomas got the pronunciation.

  “Just that? Ro-ha-ni?”

  “Al-Rohani Antara,” Johari said shortly.

  “Antares?”

  Johari shook his head. “Antara,” he repeated. “Because…” he said in English, then hesitated. He patted the ground they sat on. “Earth.” Then he pointed up. “Sky.” He flattened his hand and wiggled it a little. “Antara.”

  “Between?”

  “Yes.” Johari almost sighed in relief.

  He looked at his new crewmate, then to his good friend, and back up at the rohani, which was resting in preparation for another voyage.

  He was starting to understand why as-sayyida had chosen that name.

  Fées des Dents

  George S. Walker

  Wailing, an emaciated child dropped to her knees on the dusty African path leading to the Médecins Sans Frontières clinic. Her tiny black hands, slimy with blood, clutched at her mouth.

  Dr. Mallory rushed from the tent where he’d been working and crouched beside her. Filled with tears, her dark eyes looked up into his. The girl was about six. From the blood on her face, he thought someone had struck her in the mouth. Only when he gently pulled her hands away to examine her mouth did he see that all her teeth had been pulled. She continued sobbing. He picked her up and carried her toward the white MSF pediatrics tent.

  In the distance, he heard the crash of trees falling, like giants fighting. But AIDS had killed off the last of the true giants a decade ago. All that remained of them in Sudan were skeletons in hard-to-find burial crypts. Smoke rose from the direction of the trees. Probably a dragon.

  He wiped his dusty shoes on the mat outside the clinic and entered. One of the Sudanese nurses, a woman named Kola, came to take the girl from him.

  “Fées des dents,” said Dr. Rousseau, glancing up from his own patient.

  The French words meant nothing to Dr. Mallory.

  “Tooth fairies,” Kola translated, pulling on a pair of sterile gloves.

  Mallory had arrived from London less than a week ago, and despite his medical background and skin the same color as most of his patients’, he felt lost here in Sudan. People suffered and died from things unheard of in Europe: malaria, cholera, dragon venom. He knew of tooth fairies, but the ones in London were scavengers, not predators like the African breed.

  Kola bent over the girl on the cot, gently cleaning her mouth and applying medicine to staunch the bleeding. The girl howled and fought until Mallory helped, holding her and applying a damp cloth to her forehead. Kola spoke to the girl in Dinka, calming her.

  “You find her alone?” asked Kola.

  Mallory nodded. “She walked here.”

  “No family?” said Kola. “Girl this age need be careful. Mouth ripe. New teeth loosening little ones. Fairies smell teeth a long way.”

  “Why don’t the villages drive the fairies away? Burn the groves where they live?”

  Kola shook her head. “Spirit creatures no fear of fire.”

  That evening shouts came from the clearing in front of the MSF clinic. The source of the commotion was an old man with wrinkled black skin, a wooden staff, and a commanding presence. Kola fetched Mallory from the tent where he’d gone to read after supper.

  “A shaman,” she said.

  “What does he want?”

  “Help for his village. Dragon burns.”

  Mallory got the keys to a Land Rover. He and Kola loaded burn kits. The shaman squatted on the dry grass, watching impatiently. The sun hadn’t set yet, and a vulture circled high overhead.

  There wasn’t a real road to the shaman’s village, just a trail. The old man sat in the front seat, next to Mallory, pointing the way as the vehicle bounced over the trail. Kola sat in back, translating occasionally, but the shaman spoke little, even when questioned.

  Mallory drove the Land Rover as far as he could, finally reaching an erosion gully it couldn’t cr
oss. They got out, Mallory and Kola carrying as much as they could, the shaman leading the way.

  After about fifteen minutes of walking, Mallory asked, “How much farther?” His arms were tiring.

  He listened without comprehension to the exchange between Kola and the shaman. Her frustration showed in her speech and animated facial expressions.

  Soon he smelled smoke. The shaman pointed to his village through the trees: mud and thatch huts. The thatch roofs of several huts were burned away.

  It wasn’t until the shaman led them out of the trees that Mallory saw the soldiers. For a second, he thought they were there to help. Then he saw that instead of shovels or fire gear, they carried AK-47s. Four uniformed Sudanese soldiers stood near a Chinese advisor.

  The shaman hobbled over to them. Mallory and Kola hung back. The old man pointed to them as he spoke to the soldiers.

  “What’s he saying?” Mallory whispered.

  “He say you and many come to help village. Soldiers must leave now.”

  Mallory began to sweat. The shaman’s bluff was so weak it was laughable. The soldiers must know how small the Médecins Sans Frontières clinic was. And he’d left the two-way radio in the Land Rover.

  The Chinese advisor, cradling his assault rifle, marched over to Mallory.

  “Doctor?” he said. His face was like stone.

  “That’s right,” Mallory said. Most foreigners assumed he was a native laborer.

  “Great mans?” said the advisor and pantomimed.

  “Giants, you mean?” Mallory asked. “They’re all dead.”

  “Yes, yes. Dead giants.” He pointed at the ground.

  Mallory had no idea what the soldier wanted. “We’re here to help the burn victims.” Slowly he set the burn kits on the ground, then handed one to the Chinese. He saw that the Sudanese soldiers were watching him. Mallory’s mouth had gone dry. Kola stood behind him, probably as scared as he was.

  The advisor glanced at the burn kit and handed it back. “Dead giants?” he asked again.

  Mallory gestured his ignorance.

  The man scowled at him, then spun on his heel and joined the other soldiers. He led them out of the village on its far side.

  Mallory exhaled. He hadn’t realized he’d been holding his breath. His heart was still hammering in his chest.

  The shaman returned to Mallory and Kola.

  “Where are the burn victims?” asked Mallory.

  A long exchange between Kola and the shaman followed.

  “No one burns,” said Kola. She looked relieved.

  “That’s what I thought. Was there even a dragon?”

  “Yes. First dragon, next soldiers. They hunt giants grave.”

  “Why?”

  Kola shrugged. “He say you save village.”

  “I did nothing.”

  She raised an eyebrow. “And no fear?”

  Never ask a black man if he’s afraid. “No.”

  The next morning, before the clinic let in new patients, Mallory went to Dr. Rousseau’s tent.

  “What do the Chinese want with dead giants?”

  Dr. Rousseau scratched his gray beard and tilted his head. “What did the Americans want when the giants were alive, eh?” He had a thick French accent.

  The Americans, like the Europeans, had been far more interested in Africa before the giants died out. The Chinese and their dragons had filled the void.

  “Why did you come to Sudan, Dr. Mallory? Penance, no?”

  “I came to help. But half these people don’t even recognize I’m a doctor. What can I do about a burned village?”

  “Petition the government in Khartoum,” said Rousseau.

  Mallory detected the sarcasm in his voice.

  “It will return,” said Rousseau.

  “What will?”

  “Le dragon.”

  “Why?”

  Rousseau shrugged. “Who comprehends les dragons?”

  “But you know it will be back. How?”

  “A year ago, same thing. Near a clinique in Darfur. Dragon burning villages.”

  “And there was nothing you could do?”

  Rousseau shook his head. “Finally it stops.” He went to a case beside his cot and rummaged through papers. Eventually he found what he sought: a photograph.

  Mallory took it from him. It showed a dead dragon lying on its side in a clearing. Its distended abdomen had ruptured, and bloody, smoking intestines snaked across the clearing.

  “I thought they were immortal,” said Mallory.

  “Once we thought that about giants. Now, all gone.”

  “What killed it?”

  Rousseau gave his wry French smile. “You think I did an autopsy, no?”

  Mallory considered this. “I would have.”

  “I desired to. I returned to la clinique to get my instruments, but the Chinese found and removed the corpse before I could return.”

  The Chinese treated their dragons like military secrets. Rousseau was lucky the army hadn’t caught him near the corpse.

  “I wish I had taken more photographs,” said Rousseau. “Interesting evolutionary branch, les dragons. Did you know they have gizzards, as fowl? It was there the rupture occurred. Like a burst appendix. But flambé.”

  The clinic treated refugees from another village that day, one that soldiers had raided, and by evening, Mallory was exhausted. He went to bed early.

  Screams awakened him after midnight: terrified children. He burst out of his tent. The moon was a waning crescent. Hardly any lights. The clinic’s generator was putting out enough power for the intensive care tent only. The screams came from the pediatrics tent.

  Mallory ran toward it and knocked over a child on crutches, fleeing the tent.

  He helped the child up, then plunged inside. Where was the night duty nurse? There were no lights in the tent, and hardly any filtering in from outside. Mallory couldn’t find the switch. There was only one boy left crying in the tent. Mallory felt his way from cot to cot toward the child.

  The boy was thrashing, screaming, tangled in his sheet. He must be having a nightmare. Mallory put his hands on the child to awaken him.

  He felt something else moving under the sheet. More than one something. Things that vibrated and crawled like giant winged insects.

  The boy wasn’t wailing from a nightmare; he was being attacked. Mallory felt desperately for an edge of the sheet but failed. He grabbed the sheet with both hands and yanked, pulling the boy off the cot, catching him against his own legs. The child was still struggling, wrapped in the sheet as if something was holding it shut.

  With one hand Mallory found an edge and pulled. Something whirred near his face with a tiny fan of air. Then he felt the miniature hands of a tooth fairy forcing his lips apart. The creature’s feet began kicking his front teeth. Mallory let go of the edge of the sheet, shook his head sharply and grabbed the thing from his mouth. He tried to crush it in his fist, and failing that, to tear its wings off. The creature seemed indestructible, immortal. When he loosened his grip, it flew away, unharmed.

  The struggling boy had slid to the floor, landing on Mallory’s feet. He crouched and found the edge of the sheet again. Yanking with both hands, he freed the boy’s head. Mallory felt fairies swarming on the boy’s sweaty face and mouth as he continued to shriek. Mallory caught a fairy and pulled it away, then another. The boy struggled free of his sheet, fairies clinging like leeches to his face. Mallory used the sheet like a net, grabbing fairies off the boy and wrapping them in it. The boy sobbed, fighting to pull fairies out of his mouth. Mallory grabbed them from his wet little hands, stuffing them into the sheet.

  The lights came on in the pediatrics tent. The sheet, Mallory’s hands, and the boy’s face were scarlet with blood. Mallory grabbed another fairy, surprised by its beauty in his hand. The remaining ones flew from the boy’s mouth, shaking blood from their wings as they darted for the tent’s exit, past the night duty nurse. She stood in a state of half-undress, her hand on the ligh
t switch.

  She ran to the boy and held him to her as he continued sobbing. Shouts approached outside, and children’s faces peeked in through the tent opening.

  Mallory knotted the sheet, found an empty storage bin, and crammed it inside, latching the bin. He wondered if there was an MSF procedure for disposing of tooth fairies.

  The next day, the night duty nurse was fired for leaving the children unprotected. That afternoon, a new group of refugees trickled in. A few burn cases, but mostly villagers whose homes and crops had been destroyed. Mallory recognized the shaman in the food line, but his face had a beaten look, not the commanding presence of the previous day. When Mallory could take a break, he asked Kola to accompany him to translate.

  They found the shaman sitting alone in a patch of shade. His eyes were closed, and he rocked slowly.

  Mallory asked if the soldiers had returned.

  His answer through Kola was simply, “The dragon.” When he looked up at Mallory, there was disappointment in his eyes. He closed them and resumed his meditative rocking.

  On the walk back to the clinic tents, Mallory asked Kola, “What did he expect of me?”

  “A miracle,” she said sadly.

  Mallory spread his hands. “I’m a doctor, not a magician.”

  After regular clinic hours, Mallory went to see Dr. Rousseau again.

  “The dragon came back.”

  “As I said, no?” replied Rousseau.

  “Isn’t this futile? The dragon burns down their village and routs their cattle, we feed and heal them, they return to rebuild their village, and the dragon comes back.”

  “The circle of life.”

  “Of death,” said Mallory.

  “Shall we assault le dragon with our scalpels?” He made stabbing motions with his index fingers.

  Mallory frowned. “What does it eat? Can we poison its food? Or does it eat people?”

  “Les os.”

  “What?”

  “Les dragons are fond of bones.”

  Hours later, Kola came to Mallory’s tent. It was getting dark. She apologized.