“Right, but they got unlucky with the ice storm and the sharp rocks of the shoal.”
“So Beijing brings in the specialist and blames the three half-wit brothers?”
“So why were you sent for, Fong?” asked the coroner. “To prove they’re serious to the foreigners?”
“No. I don’t think so.”
“So who sent for you? The murderers or the burners? The rogue or official Beijing?”
“The burners — Beijing.”
“Why, Fong? Why would the ones who burned the boat send for you?” asked Lily.
“Because they want to know what really happened out there,” stated the coroner and looked to Fong. Fong didn’t reply.
“So you can find the murderers, right, Fong?” asked Lily.
“In a way. They want the murderers found. But not because they want to see justice done. They want the murderers so they can trace their way from the murderers back to who ordered the murders — the rogue — in Beijing.”
The heaviness in the room deepened. Everyone understood what Fong was saying — that they were just being used in a much bigger game. That no one gave a shit about the dead men. Or maybe even who killed them. Or maybe even the Western money. The only thing Beijing wanted was the path back to the rogue in their midst.
“It would help if we knew who the specialist worked for, Fong,” said Lily.
Fong looked at her. How very much he admired this strong young woman. What a good cop she was. How her loneliness touched him. But Fong hesitated to share what was in his head because he was reasonably sure that the specialist was from yet another Beijing box — perhaps a box of one. Fong wondered if he was ill. If he was dying. If he was alone.
Fong kept it all to himself. “Whoever killed those men would want the foreign press to know about it. They must have contacted them. Lily, you follow that.”
“It’s bound to lead to Xian.”
“No kidding,” Fong said. A lot seems to lead to Xian . . . and to the island.
“So, while Chen’s looking for the hooker and Lily’s investigating the Western press, what are you going to be doing, Fong?” asked the coroner.
“I’m going to a funeral, Grandpa. Want to come?”
The moment the words were out of his mouth, Fong regretted them. He had embarrassed an elder in public. Fong bowed his head slightly. The coroner waited for a beat and then acknowledged the apology. But he had no comeback. He turned from Fong and shuffled out of the dirty factory.
Fong began to follow, but Lily stopped him. “Don’t, Fong,” she said gently. “It must be terrible to be old and know as much about death as he knows.”
Fong looked at her. Sadness, like spring weeds after a storm, blossomed in her eyes.
CHAPTER TWELVE
AN ISLAND FUNERAL
Fong didn’t want to be late for Hesheng’s funeral rites, but he delayed his departure as long as he could. Even the thought of a boat ride made him queasy. But islands, by their nature, required the crossing of water. Finally he went down to the docks and gingerly boarded the boat that Chen had arranged to take him to the Island of the Half-wits. The boat rocked. They hadn’t even left the dock and Fong already felt sick. But any impulse to step out of the boat and back onto dry land was stopped because so much pointed toward the island — and Xian. “What did the Island of the Halfwits and Xian have in common?” he asked himself. “An isolated island in a big lake and the ancient capital of China’s first emperor. What could they possibly share?” The boatman pushed off and the voyage began. Although the morning had brought a cold wind, Fong found himself quickly slick with sweat.
He took a deep breath and made himself examine the boat. Something, anything to distract himself from the vaulting nausea in his gut.
The vessel was a Chinese-style gondola designed for fishing and carrying cargo. The boat’s owner stood at the stern and moved his oar back and forth to propel and steer the boat. In typical Chinese fashion, why use an oar and a rudder — just lengthen the oar and it can act as both. Also, typically Chinese, all the power needed was generated by human muscle. No motor here, just an angry-faced boatman.
As they got farther from shore, the water on the large lake became more choppy. Fong dearly wished he’d skipped the breakfast porridge. At one point he was sure that he was going to lose the contents of his stomach, but a terse threat from the boatman made it clear that if he did he’d have to clean it up — with his tongue. So Fong kept his mind off his stomach and held on tight.
“How long till we get there?” he asked through gritted teeth.
The boatman shrugged and reiterated his threat to make Fong lick up anything he “left” in the boat. Fong was about to reply that he was a police officer and the man had better remember that, but he was afraid to speak. He kept his peace — and his mouth shut.
Fong turned away and spotted a cormorant fisherman far off to the port side. The old fisher had just released one of his elegant birds and was preparing a second for the day’s work.
When young, Fong, like most Chinese children, had been told stories about the famous fishermen who used trained cormorants rather than hook, bait and rod, but he’d never seen one before.
He noted the lantern stands at the front and back of the fisherman’s boat.
“Do they fish at night?” he managed to ask.
“Night, day, winter, summer — they’re always there,” the boatman answered with a sour sneer. Fong assumed he didn’t like cormorant fishermen. Why should he? He didn’t seem to like anything else. Why should cormorant fishermen escape his venom?
As Fong watched, a mature cormorant hopped up onto the fisherman’s boat and waddled over to the old man. The man’s gnarled fingers reached out and stroked the bird’s long neck — from its beak down to the glinting metal ring at its base. The bird cooed and released a fish from its throat. The plump thing flapped on the seat of the boat for two beats then disappeared to the floor. The fisherman fondled the bird again and fluffed its feathers before committing the animal once more to the lake’s cold waters.
From a distance, the cormorant and the old fisherman appeared to be ideally fitted — two halves of a crossspecies partnership. At least that’s what the children’s stories would have one believe.
“There,” said the boatman in a guttural exclamation from behind Fong. He was pointing to the right.
The island had come up quickly. Fong looked at his watch. They’d been on the lake for just over an hour — a personal best that he had no desire to challenge.
There was no wharf on the Island of the Half-wits, just a rocky beach where several fishing boats rested at cocky angles. One was flipped over and two men were re-gumming the starboard side of the keel with a dark resin. Women sat on some of the larger rocks cleaning and dressing fish. Children walked beside baby cormorants that picked their way carefully among the sharp stones. The whole scene struck Fong as oddly domestic — like Shanghai on Sundays.
To the north along the rock-strewn beach, tendrils of smoke came from the fishermen’s huts. Past them, a gravel path led steeply upward to what Fong guessed was the farmers’ enclave.
As he approached, eyes followed him. Just like in the village west of the Wall. But something was different here and Fong felt it the moment he’d left the shoreline and headed inland. It was as if he’d left China. Not just modern China, but China altogether.
Like every other conquering power, the Communists made deals with local power elites. Over the years, Mao and his successors had reneged on, or renegotiated, a great many of those agreements. But China is a vast country and during the War of Liberation, thousands, perhaps tens of thousands, of virtually autonomous regions formed. On the whole, if a region was small and self-contained, the Communists left it alone. Clearly this island, the Island of the Half-wits, was such a place.
As Fong moved farther inland, the place got somehow older and definitely more foreign. Even the pattern of the farmers’ huts hit an odd chord in him. The only familiar objects were th
e pails of night soil hanging on either side of every doorway. As he passed them, their scents told Fong how long the material had been ripening.
Old skills never really die — they ferment.
Then he heard the braying of a horn and the slash of a cymbal.
Fong followed the sound to the back of the huts. A procession was forming. It seemed that the whole village had assembled. Not the whole island, he noted. The fishers stayed to themselves.
Four young men lifted a scarlet-sheeted body above their heads and started up the path. The red cloth was the most intense red Fong could remember.
A long line of vigorous, work-toughened men walked slowly behind the body. They were dressed from head to toe in white. The old man Fong had seen at the jail — Iman — led the procession.
Fong scanned the men. They shared similar facial features. Almost all were the same height, all had the same square body type — shit they even used the same shambling gait.
The women followed the men. Once again led by an elder. Once again in white. The women were as rugged as the men and resembled them closely. They looked like they’d all sprung from the same set of loins. But there seemed to be no mental deprivation here. Only a sameness — and an undeniable vigour.
The rhythm of the cymbals increased and the procession picked up speed heading straight up the terraced hills toward the centre of the island. As they passed by terrace after terrace, the procession began to sing. The words were ancient. “Death is ancient,” Fong thought. “It invites us all with cymbal and horn — like a Peking Opera performance.”
By the time the body reached a dry terrace, two-thirds of the way up the mountain, Fong had fallen far behind. He knew they’d seen him, but when he crested the final rise he was surprised to find them lining either side of the path. The singing had stopped. The only sound was the blare of the mournful horn — and Fong’s wheezing efforts to supply his lungs with oxygen.
Fong walked slowly between the rows of faces. Up close he saw that some were so alike that he was sure he wouldn’t be able to tell one from the next even after concerted study. Then he was there — at the end of the line of islanders — facing the one called Iman. Behind the vital old man stood the four younger men with the crimson-swathed body of Hesheng on their shoulders. Suddenly, Iman snapped his head downward in a gesture of submission as old as the land upon which they both stood. “You honour us with your presence.”
Fong wouldn’t have been more surprised if the old man had whipped out his penis and sprayed his name in the dirt. Fong nodded slightly, careful to keep his head above the level to which Iman had lowered his. Iman’s eyes held Fong’s for a long moment.
The interment began.
Some of Fong’s acquaintances had passed away, but none of them had been formally buried. No one was put in a box and dropped into a hole anymore in the great Communist state. Even funeral ceremonies were frowned on.
A shallow grave had already been scraped from the moist ground. The body in its scarlet swathing lay beside the hole. The trumpet sounded and the cymbals crashed a-rhythmically. Then Iman raised his hands and cried out, “Take Hesheng back to you. We commit him to your care. We honour you, our ancestors, and now him, by committing him to your care. Take Heshing back to you, our ancestors.”
“Why are rituals always repetitious?” Fong wondered.
Iman paused. His mouth opened then shut.
Fong took a step closer, anxious to hear what Iman would say next. But he said nothing. “Why?” Fong thought. “A man of Iman’s advanced years must have recited the burial ceremony dozens, if not hundreds, of times.” Yet the man stood stock-still, clearly lost as to what to say next.
Finally, Iman signalled that Hesheng’s body should be put in the ground.
Fong backed off and climbed a slight rise at the back of the graveyard. He looked around him. The place was small. Few plots.
Then his eye landed on a grave directly beneath the wall. The soil on top had not yet settled. Night soil–laden dirt did that — took a long time to pack. He looked up. Above him was a hand-hewn terrace wall that no doubt held back an upper paddy’s water. In the rainy season it could overflow, depositing night soil in the graveyard. Night soil.
He looked at the grave. It had been dug recently.
He crossed over to it and picked up a handful of dirt. He let it run through his fingers. Memories of his youth flooded through him — and of the bag of dirt the specialist had taken as evidence from the sunken boat’s runway. Dirt on the stripper’s runway. Night soil–laden dirt. Like the dirt from this grave.
Fong felt a tendril of cold slither up his spine as a possibility — a shocking possibility — presented itself. Then he looked behind the grave’s headstone. And a piece fell into place. There on the ground stood a small column of free-standing stones, one balanced perfectly on the next. Four stones. Stacking stones. “The stones are a way of marking time, Detective Zhong. A way of noting its passage. One stone for each . . .”
“Of my visits,” Fong said aloud. Xian and the Island of the Half-wits — Dr. Roung the archeologist from Xian, and whoever was buried in this grave.
As he reached out to touch the head stone, a foot kicked his hand aside. “Don’t touch that!” The command’s sharp nasal tones broke the silence.
“I intended no . . .”
“Do you want her dug up again?” There was something odd in the voice. Fong caught a glint in the young man’s eyes that he’d seen before in violent men. A madness. A spiralling; anger that had no floor. Fong marked him closely. He looked like the other islanders, but there was something different about him. Something to be feared.
Fong stepped back. He didn’t want to fight this man.
“Jiajia!”
Both Fong and the younger man looked up. Iman strode briskly toward them. “This man is a guest on our island, Jiajia.”
There was a tick of silence. Jiajia gave Fong a hatefilled look then said, “Yes, Iman,” and stomped away.
Iman turned to Fong then glanced at the grave. “Her name was Chu Shi. She was Jiajia’s wife.” Fong nodded. “Death is hard on the young.” Iman made his face into a rough approximation of a smile then returned to the others who were lowering the crimson-sheeted Hesheng into the ground.
Fong watched Iman move — lope was the word that came to him. “When I get old, I want to be that healthy,” he thought.
Fong took a last look at Chu Shi’s headstone, and then at Hesheng’s. Hesheng’s name was on his and the date of his passing, but no other dates. There were no dates at all on Chu Shi’s grave marker.
Fong began down the terraced mountain, suddenly anxious to be alone with his thoughts.
As he approached the waiting boat he didn’t know which was worse — the shocking possibilities he’d found by Chu Shi’s grave or his imminent lake voyage back to Ching.
Dr. Roung stood on the shore of the great lake and watched the sun set. In the distance he could just make out the figure of a lone worker in an upper paddy on the Island of the Half-wits. Well, not really the worker. Just the glint of the fading light off his broad trench-hewer. Then the glint faded. Like everything else on the island. A brightness, a hope, and then no more.
The island. The place that had changed his life. Lifted his eyes from his concentration on small pieces. Showed him new possibilities. Great possibilities. The chance not to recreate but to create — to create something that could last and last. Not for as long as the terra-cotta warriors, but long. Long and alive. Something that was his and could very well carry his identity, his very self, forward through time. As he thought the word — time — he elongated the vowels.
Far to his right was the shoal that had first brought him to this place. The shoal was also the structure on which the luxury boat had floundered and from which it had eventually entered, ice-covered and scorched, into the inky winter water. A lone fisherman with two cormorants on the gunwhales of his boat glided directly toward him. How did he always know? Every
thing.
This fisherman had discovered the artifact. One of his cormorants had returned to the boat with something caught in its throat. The fisherman had stuck his hand all the way down its lengthy gullet. What he came up with, after considerable tugging and much cursing, was a moss-encrusted object that he would have tossed back into the water, accompanied by the appropriate obscenity for wasted effort, had he not noted the dull sheen of metal. It was no doubt that hint of brightness that had first attracted the bird.
The old schemer pocketed the object and took it home. There he carefully chipped away the growth then polished the object which, after much attention, revealed itself to be a startlingly accurate depiction of a horse’s hindquarters and rear legs rendered in bronze. It was just over three inches in length and beautifully done — a fact that escaped the fisherman.
What didn’t escape him was the possibility that the thing might be worth something.
It took him several months of judicious asking around before he found out about Dr. Roung, the archeologist in Xian, and another few months before he made his way to the ancient capital. He’d never left the environs of the lake before. But profit was a powerful motivator.
One chilly morning, the smelly man was ushered through Dr. Roung’s office door. The archeologist had been examining the medieval Italian’s book about China that had so long puzzled him. He didn’t like puzzles he couldn’t solve. But he never considered conceding defeat. He took a last look at the book and returned it to the shelf. Without turning to face the fisherman he said, “My assistant tells me that you have something to show me?”
The fisherman looked around, not sure what to say or do.
The archeologist looked at the old man.
“Would you like a drink?”
The fisherman’s eyes widened. Dr. Roung never drank himself, but had found strong Chinese wine a useful enticement with the locals. He poured a glass. The man sat down.
Two glasses later, the man was ready to talk. “Excellency. Do you purchase ancient things? Small, ancient things?”
The Lake Ching Murders - A Mystery of Fire and Ice Page 14
