The Scarlet Crane: Transition Magic Book One (The Transition Magic Series 1)

by J. E. Hopkins

  Toure burst out laughing. “One of the babies would barter better than you.” The women in the camp whooped, pointed at Abulengu and shook their heads, scorning him.

  “I will get more from the Bantu than you. Leave now.”

  Mother Toure’s jeering grew. “Fah! You would give the meat away for cigarettes and liquor for yourself. The band would get nothing.” The two women dropped the meat to the ground and stood in front of it, arms crossed. “Shoo!”

  The laughter of the other women in the camp increased. They picked up small stones and tossed them at Abulengu’s feet. He skipped to avoid the rocks, stared at Mother Toure for a moment, shrugged to the Bantu, and fled the camp.

  Toure directed her attention to the youths. “Go gather food.” She looked at Isa. “Elder Ballo will begin your instruction for nkumbi when you return.”

  * * *

  The youths grabbed empty baskets and ran into the Forest, giggling at the dispute and its outcome.

  “I’m thirsty,” Zaire said. “Let’s get water before we start.”

  They each tore a large leaf from a nearby shrub and scampered to the bank of the glassy river near the camp. Each boy rolled his leaf into a funnel and pinched the bottom shut. They dipped the green cups into the stream and drank until their bellies were as distended as a pregnant woman’s. Zaire belched so loudly that he drove birds from the canopy, which led to a spontaneous game of bigger and funnier belches, ending with them rolling on the ground in near hysterics.

  They moved into the trees, collecting fruit, nuts, mushrooms, and large, juicy caterpillars. Each day they had to search farther to gather enough for the camp.

  Shafts of shimmering gold sunlight brightened the shade of the forest floor around a fallen tree. Water still dripped from the morning dew; the air smelled wet and green.

  “One of the Bantu told me many youths die during nkumbi,” Zaire said. “The samawati magic goes bad and they die.”

  “My magic won’t be bad,” Isa said.

  “What about those with samawati eyes who’ve left camp and not returned? Maybe they died.”

  Isa scowled. “Who knows? Getting my dhakari cut is scarier than samawati magic.”

  One of the others picked up a short stick, mimed a slicing motion, and broke the stick into shorter and shorter pieces. Zaire and the others pointed at Isa’s loincloth and howled.

  Isa picked up a stick shorter than his small finger and flicked it at Zaire. “At least my dhakari is bigger than your twig.” He pounded Zaire on the back. Zaire laughed, tackled Isa, and rubbed dirty wet leaves in his face. The others shrieked and threw dirt and sticks at both of them. Isa tossed Zaire to the side. He climbed to his feet, smiling, and wiped his face. “Enough.” He led them deeper into the Forest.

  They returned to the camp in late afternoon, their baskets filled. A Mother told them that the Forest had provided no more antelope after the morning’s first hunt. The Bantu had tired of waiting and left for their own village. They would return the next sun with the yams, beans, and a new metal pot they’d agreed to exchange for the meat. Isa was happy that the Bantu preferred to trade for meat rather than hunt. The yams were better than anything in the forest, except for honey. Nothing was better than honey.

  He sought out Mother Toure. “Will we move for better hunting?” They had been in the same camp for more than one circle of the moon. He worried that a new camp would delay the nkumbi.

  Mother Toure pointed to the baskets he and the others had gathered. “All this and three antelope for trade. We stay until the Forest tells us to move.” She reached out, touched him gently near the corner of each eye, and scrubbed his head. “Elder Ballo waits for you by the giant umbrella tree next to the river. Go.”

  * * *

  The Elder sat cross-legged under the umbrella tree, weaving a basket. A skinning knife, a curled sheet of fig tree bark, and a small finished basket lay by his side. His hair was as white as the clouds, his skin the dark color of wet earth instead of the red-brown of the young. He patted the ground for Isa to join him. Isa sat, silent, listening to the slithering stream and the monkeys overhead.

  In a voice so soft that Isa had to lean forward to hear him, Elder Ballo said, “As it has been since time forgotten, samawati eyes signify that Bambuti youth are ready for passage; boys through nkumbi, girls through lliama. I am the oldest Father in our camp and will prepare you for the ritual.”

  “Thank you, Elder.”

  “Answer this question, child—do you believe that you will be an adult after nkumbi?”

  “Yes, Elder.”

  “True, and not true, Isa. Nkumbi is only part of being an adult. It is one camp on a long path through the Forest. Other camps on the path are taking a wife, killing your first antelope, having a child.”

  Isa thought about this for several minutes. “If this is so, when will I be an adult?”

  “When others see you as adult. If others see you as a youth, you are still a youth, no matter how many antelopes you’ve killed or children you have. Do you understand?”

  Isa considered what he’d been told. “Is Abulengu a youth?”

  The Elder smiled. “Often. Are you ready for your instruction?”

  “Yes.”

  “You may only speak of nkumbi with me and adults in our band. Speaking with others would bring evil magic to our people and you would forever be a youth. Do you vow to remain silent?”

  “Yes, Elder. I’ll tell no one.”

  Ballo picked up the knife.

  “I remove your hair so others may know you are prepared for nkumbi.” He chopped Isa’s hair close to his head, gathered the chunks into a mound on the fig bark, and started scraping his scalp. Isa winced when the knife cut his skin, eyes filling, but kept still. When the Elder finished, Isa rubbed his hand over his head; the air was cool on his skin. “Take the hair with you when you leave. Go into the Forest away from the camp, and bury it. Thank the Forest for your life.”

  The Elder then picked up the small finished basket. It held a wet paste of clay and ash. He gathered a handful and spread it on Isa’s face. “I mark your skin so all may know you honor Muungu.” He handed Isa the basket. “Use this each day with the rising sun.”

  Isa set the basket aside. He burned with a question that could wait no longer. “The Bantu told Zaire that youths die during nkumbi from bad magic. Is that so?”

  Ballo’s eyes crinkled in amusement. “Always with questions. So it has been with you, more than any other. The Bantu say childish things. No one knows when death comes. Muungu rules death.”

  Isa nodded. Elder Ballo had told him what every child learned, but little about what happened during nkumbi. Fear drove another question. “Could I die during nkumbi?”

  “Of course. Or you could die sitting here. Muungu decides. Have courage, Isa. If most Bambuti youths died in nkumbi, there would be no Bambuti.”

  The Elder snapped his fingers inches from Isa’s face, drawing him away from thoughts of death.

  “You pass through two doors during nkumbi. Doors of the spirit. The first of these is circumcision, which marks your readiness for marriage. The second is samawati magic, which is possible only while you have samawati eyes. This is when you and the others will perform magic. It is samawati that marks your passage.”

  “How about lliama?”

  “Lliama also has two parts—the samawati door first, when a girl’s eyes change; the second when she has her first blood and moves into the marriage hut. First blood always after samawati.”

  “When—”

  “Enough questions. Before the circumcision, the Elders will teach you nkumbi songs. Sing them well, or you will be whipped. When they are pleased with your singing, your dhakari will be rubbed with herbs to lessen the pain. Then they will cut and remove your ngovi.” He had Isa pull his loincloth aside and show he understood where he would be cut. “Then you will rest while the Elders sing.”

  Isa decided he didn’t want to think about circumcision.

&n
bsp; “After you have rested, you will call on Muungu for the samawati magic. I will teach you the words you must say, sacred words that have been handed down from our earliest ancestors. At the end of these words, you may ask Muungu what you wish.”

  Another momentary pause. “Heed me, Isa. Say the words as I give them to you or the magic will fail. Your magic must be something deep in your heart, or it will fail. It must be something no other youth has asked for, or it will fail.”

  “What happens if I fail?”

  “Muungu decides. Return here tomorrow after your work in the Forest, and we will begin your study.”

  “Thank you, Elder. I will study each day.”

  Elder Ballo laughed with glee, like an antelope skipping over a hunter’s net. “Study hard, young Isa. Your nkumbi is in two days.”

  Bangkok

  The Kingdom of Thailand

  Ambassador Rosemary Strong’s disclosure that John had been invited to accompany the Thai National Intelligence Agency on a raid was met with momentary silence.

  Director Bentley’s voice resonated over the conference speaker from her Washington office. “Rose, can we trust the NIA? What’s the risk John will end up being the one locked in a Thai prison?”

  “I don’t think it’s very high, Marva, even though the Thai government has historically been a bit undependable. They’re trying to ditch their reputation for tolerating human trafficking and this gives them a chance to score brownie points with the U.S. Plus, I’ll assign a top aide to accompany John for added security.”

  The ambassador’s confidence didn’t leave John with a warm and fuzzy feeling. Her power was absolute within the embassy, but zero on Bangkok’s streets. On the other hand, this bust could give them their first hard information about the Chinese kidnapping program.

  “This is a chance worth taking, Director. We need a break.”

  He looked at the ambassador. “You’re providing me with a firearm, right?”

  “Yes. However, understand that it’s illegal for you to be armed. The NIA is likely to be more understanding than the local police, but don’t test their tolerance. If they uncover your weapon, they’ll confiscate it and you.”

  “I’ll approve the op as long as John is armed,” Marva said. “That’s better than doing it with only his cane for protection.”

  “Show a little respect for the cane, please,” John said. “Let me get going here. I’ll update you when I know more.”

  The ambassador leaned over to the phone console, disconnected the call, and punched in a new number.

  A soft, musical male voice answered. “Yes, Madam Ambassador?”

  “We’re ready for you, Khrup Aran.” She hung up and turned to John. “Aran Niratpattanasee is my senior aide. He served the last two ambassadors in the same capacity. His tenure is unusual and speaks to his skill as a troubleshooter. He’s been the point person for the NIA.”

  The door opened a moment later to admit a slender man carrying an aluminum briefcase and a red accordion folder marked Top Secret. He was about five-foot ten, a fit-looking 150 pounds. His wrinkled face and a full head of silver hair suggested he was in his sixties, perhaps older. He wore a tailored gray pinstriped suit.

  John rose and exchanged the traditional wai greeting, bringing his hands together at his chest. Aran returned the wai and extended his hand for a firm handshake.

  Aran sat next to the ambassador, across from John. “Don’t worry about the last name.” His English carried no hint of an accent. “Aran is just fine.”

  The ambassador stood. “I’ll leave the two of you to your planning.” She left the room, closing the door behind her.

  Aran pushed the metal case across the table to John. “I use an ankle carry.” He stood and pulled the right leg of his trousers to about mid-calf, exposing a holster and weapon. “I took the liberty of including a similar rig in the case. If your pants won’t conceal it, we can get some made for you very quickly.”

  “Thanks, but not necessary. Mine are cut to accommodate a backup.”

  “Excellent. The weight can make you limp if you aren’t used to it. The NIA would notice if you limped like Festus.”

  John smiled. “Not a problem. Gunsmoke?”

  “Yes. I’m a fan of American TV westerns.”

  John’s smile broadened. “Perhaps Have Gun Will Travel is appropriate.”

  “Richard Boone as Paladin; ran from ‘57 through ‘63.”

  “Aran, our intelligence indicates that my presence in Bangkok is known. I believe I was followed this morning when I left the hotel. Could it be the NIA?”

  “Possibly, but I doubt it. They know your name and your agency. I’ve told them you’re investigating a report of young children being kidnapped from developing countries. There’s little reason for them to track you.”

  “Okay, I’ll let that go for now. What have you learned about Thai kidnapping rings?”

  Aran sighed. “Kidnapping isn’t a brutal enough word. It’s trafficking and slavery. Men and women, of course, but also children, sometimes as young as four. Kids are bought, then put to work—begging, running drugs, prostitution. Any vile abuse that will make someone money. Selling a child is the only way some families survive during hard times. This trade is an open secret among my people. And it’s known but officially discounted by our government.”

  Aran slid the red folder across the table. “I put together a small team inside the embassy to focus on children. We worked with the NIA and local police, partnering to interview their confidential informants. The NIA also did a couple of sweeps and brought kids in for questioning. Mostly what we did was sift rumors. The file has the interviews and pictures of the kids.”

  “What did they do with the kids after the interviews?”

  “Protective custody,”Aran said. “The NIA didn’t want them on the street talking about the interviews. They’ll cut them loose eventually, probably after a few raids are completed.”

  “And then what happens to them?”

  Aran grimaced. “I’m afraid the life of a street kid is a brutal one.”

  John skimmed the folder’s contents. There were a couple of dozen reports of interviews with the NIA’s informers. The kids in the photos looked malnourished, their body language aggressive, their eyes pinched with fear. His stomach churned as he flipped through the pages, a blowtorch at the base of his throat. He returned the file to Aran.

  “Tell me about the ride-along.”

  “The NIA is going to arrest a gang known as Scorpion operating out of Nongki, about three hundred kilometers from here. The gang’s been paying forty thousand baht—double the usual—for six- or seven-year-old children. A shipment of kids is due to leave Nongki late tomorrow night. We’ll go along and view the interrogations after the bust.”

  “Where do I need to be and when?”

  “The NIA plan is to leave for Nongki at midnight and take Scorpion at sunrise tomorrow morning. Get some rest and come back here at eleven. I’ll take us to the NIA assembly point. We’ll get details of the raid during the drive.”

  “Let’s hope our trip doesn’t end with another OK Corral,” John said.

  Aran’s demeanor softened. “The Life and Legend of Wyatt Earp. From 1955 to 1961, I believe. Not a favorite, but interesting.”

  John stood and wai’d to Aran. “Sawasdee Krap. I’ll find my way out. See you at eleven.”

  “Excellent. I suggest you take a tuk-tuk to your hotel rather than walk. They’re very difficult to follow.” He left the conference room and closed the door behind him.

  John opened the briefcase and withdrew the gun and ankle holster. He inserted a loaded clip, strapped the holster to his ankle, and shoved the weapon into the holster.

  He had no difficulty finding a tuk-tuk. The motorcycle-rickshaw hybrid pulled into the busy street and began a rapid slalom across the lanes of traffic, the driver dodging traffic like he was a bird in a flock of thousands. The heavy air stank of exhaust.

  Death drives a tuk-tuk.r />
  John closed his eyes and waited for the thrill ride to end, either with his arrival at the hotel or at the pearly gates. He survived, arriving as the sun set in a vermillion sky.

  No one could follow me on that contraption.

  He arranged for the driver to return that evening.

  * * *

  John hadn’t anticipated the added terror of a tuk-tuk ride on dark streets with a headlight made from a two-cell flashlight. He climbed from his seat and glanced at his watch. Eleven twenty-five.

  He presented himself to the duty Marine, who checked his ID and said, “Just a few minutes, please. Khrup Aran Niratpattanasee will join you here.”

  Aran entered the security building five minutes later. “Meeting you here was easier than getting your ankle through security, not to mention your cane. Shall we go?” He gestured for John to precede him to the street. A stretch black Chevy Suburban pulled through the gates and past the concrete barriers, parking beside them, motor running. The car reflected the night, its windows impenetrable.

  John bent to enter the SUV and caught a glimpse of a person sitting in the corner, facing the rear of the vehicle. He startled and cracked his head on the door frame, recognizing the ambassador a split-second too late.

  “Sorry, John!”

  “No problem.” He hesitated and then sat next to her. Aran climbed in and sat facing them.

  “The fewer people who know I’ve left the grounds, the better.” She addressed her driver. “Staff Sergeant, please circle the embassy until I tell you otherwise.” The car surged into the empty street.

  “You’re going with us? Is that wise?” John asked.

  “I’m not going on the raid. I need to talk with you. I just finished a conversation with Marva and Stony,” she said. “Ambassador Hogan was found dead this morning. He’d been garroted.”

  “Jesus,” John said. “Don’t suppose they had any hint about who was responsible?”

  “None. And there’s another disturbing development. As soon as Hogan went missing, Embassy security searched his home, took his computer and anything else they could find. In the piles of paper they found a name that no one in the embassy recognized. Stony was able to trace it to a captain in the Thai NIA. The same captain you’re meeting tonight.”