The Mark of the Golden Dragon: Being an Account of the Further Adventures of Jacky Faber, Jewel of the East, Vexation of the West, and Pearl of the South China Sea

by Louis A. Meyer

  I finish the last verse and feel Ravi bumping up next to me, so I put my arm on his shoulder.

  "Are you happy, Ravi?" I ask.

  "Yes, Missy. I am walking next to Missy Memsahib and she sings nice song. My belly is full of awful clam, but my tummy is silent. My karma is good. Yes. Sun shines and Ravi is happy at this moment."

  "You have a good outlook on life, my lad," I say, smiling down upon him. "Others could learn from your example."

  I hold my face up to the sun and think on this.

  Yes ... others like ... Amy Trevelyne, my dear friend and most melancholy of girls. Yes, you shall soon hear of my demise. Will you be able to look upon the shining of the sun and other delightful things of this world, or will you fall fatally into gloom? Oh, I hope not, for I am not worthy of your grief, but I despair of that. Maybe the news will be long in coming to you. Maybe Ezra Pickering will be there to help you. I hope so...

  "Look, Memsahib," says Ravi, pointing. We have just rounded yet another point and can see far along the shore to the north. "There is village up there!"

  Sure enough, way off in the mist we can see some huts and boats pulled up on the beach.

  I look at the sun, which is quickly setting, and say, "Right, Ravi, we shall go there tomorrow. Tonight we shall sleep here. Let us pitch camp. Right back there in the woods. There seems to be a bit of a clearing."

  I stride in and pull my pack from my back. I open it and take out the large square of canvas and spread it out.

  "What means Memsahib to do?" asks Ravi, his eyes a bit wide and looking fearfully about.

  "Why, I'm going to set up our tent right here," I reply. "See, I'll string this rope from this tree to that tree, throw the canvas over it, and then cut some wooden stakes to hold down the corners. We will sleep very snug underneath it, and then tomorrow, we will go to that town to see what we shall see."

  "Uh ... would Memsahib mind too much if Ravi leave her side and sleep up in tree tonight?"

  "Why, whatever for?"

  Just then, from deep in the darkening jungle, comes this low rumble of a roar, which sends shivers up my spine, and I am suddenly a very small and frightened woodland creature.

  "That is why, Missy," says Ravi, beginning to climb.

  I am right behind him.

  When we get to a good strong crotch in the tree, I look back down but see nothing.

  "Can they climb trees?" I ask, my voice shaking. There was something in that growl that transported me from my modern state and shoved me cowering back to prehistoric times and into some dank, dark cave.

  "Not far up," says Ravi. "They are too big. But they might try."

  I take the canvas that would have been my tent, tie knots into each end, and attach ropes to them. Then I fasten those lines to strong branches and secure them as best I can, making a crude hammock.

  "Get in here with me, Ravi, and let us hope for the best," I say, slipping into the fold of canvas.

  He crawls in beside me and I hold him to me.

  RRRRRROOOOWLLLLLLL.

  The beast is right below us, circling about the base of the tree. Another low roar and the tree shakes and we know the tiger is trying the tree.

  Ravi's arms tighten around me, and mine around him.

  Oh, how I hope my knots are tight and strong and we live through this night!

  Chapter 6

  As dawn's feeble light comes creeping into the jungle, I peer cautiously over the edge of our hammock and gaze at the trampled grass below. I can see that the trunk of the tree is all scratched, with most of its bark gone up to a height of about ten feet. There are deep gouges in the soft wood, marks of the tiger's claws. I give out with yet another shudder. Good Lord...

  I feel Ravi wriggling and his head pops up beside mine.

  "I think it's gone," I whisper.

  "That is to be hoped, Missy," says Ravi, looking dubious. "Tigers do come out only at night. Usually."

  I give him a look. "Usually?"

  He shrugs.

  "Well, we can't stay up here forever," I say. "Let us break camp and be on our way."

  I struggle out of the hammock and onto the tree limb. Untying the rope knots is easy, them being the sailor's friend, the bowline, a knot that never fails to untie no matter how much pressure has been put on it. If you can't tie a bowline, whether in calm or in a howling gale, then you ain't a sailor. Getting the knots out of the canvas fabric proved a bit more difficult, but we got it done and our knapsacks repacked and back on our shoulders.

  "All right, let's go," I say, beginning to climb down.

  In a moment, my feet are on the ground. Ravi drops down lightly beside me.

  "To the beach, Ravi, me lad," I say, clapping him on the back. "We survived the night and are not in the tummy of the tiger and—"

  We both freeze at the sound of something big—something very big—rustling in the bushes behind us.

  "Run!" I scream. "To the water! Run!"

  Ravi needs no such encouragement. He is off like a little brown streak and I am not far behind him.

  GRRRRROOOWWWWLLLLLL!

  Oh, God, it's right behind me! Please, Lord, let me make it to the water.

  Make it to the water we do, looking for all the world like a pair of frightened waterfowl, but it doesn't seem like it'll do us a whole lot of good, as I can hear the beast splashing into the surf right behind us.

  "Get farther out!" I yell to Ravi. "Maybe he'll go back if he has to swim!"

  I'm up to my chest now and pulling for the open sea. Ravi is well ahead of me. The tiger will have to swim now or else give it up. Please, God, make him go away!

  But swim he does and give it up he does not.

  I look back at him and my knees turn to jelly and my insides turn to water. His whiskered orange and black face with its big white muzzle must be two feet across!

  "Nice kitty!" I shout, desperate. "Shoo! Go away!"

  Swimming, he cannot bring his claws to bear, which is good, but his jaws full of teeth will get the job done just as well.

  "Bad kitty! Bad kitty!"

  In spite of my total terror, I manage to pull out my shiv and hold it quivering in front of me. The beast opens his mouth and I can see his pink tongue and huge yellow teeth, his bright and glistening eyes. His paw brushes my leg. In a moment he will have me and I will be lost! Oh, Lord, he is so big! And he is on me!

  Powered by both fear and desperation, I plunge my puny little shiv into his big black nose.

  GRRROOOOOWWWLLLL?

  Not used to having his prey fight back, the tiger brings up his right paw to swipe at his now bleeding nose, which causes his head to sink beneath the waves for a second. It ain't much in the way of a counterattack, but it is enough for him to taste the salt and maybe think about something else for his dinner. He retreats and swims back to the shore, roaring out his displeasure. There he gives himself a mighty shake, to free his striped fur of the salt water, and then he shambles off into the forest, grumbling to himself, it seems to me. Serves the bugger right, I say to myself, shivering in spite of the warmness of the water. There have been many in my life who have chased me for various reasons, but this is one of the few times my pursuer actually wanted to eat me. 'Course there were those sharks in the Atlantic when the Bloodhound was going down ... and that pack of gators on Key West, but still ... The idea of parts of my dear body being ripped from my frame and chewed and swallowed by some ravenous beast is not a thought that sits easy on my mind. No, it is not.

  "Ravi," I say, panting, my mind still in tatters. "Get up on my back and we shall wade up the shore till we are far away from here." He does it, and keeping out to my neck level makes it easy for me to bear his light weight as we slog our way north.

  "Must be old tiger, Memsahib," says Ravi from his perch. "Else we now be with Brahma, enjoying eternal bliss."

  I just grunt and slog on. Eternal bliss, indeed ... I'd settle for some temporary bliss.

  We emerge from the water still some distance from t
he village. It has been agreed that Ravi will venture into the town to find out what he can about the local lingo, the lay of the land, just exactly where we are, and our prospects, if any, for making some money. Meanwhile, I will hang back and hide, for I fear my appearance would seem rather bizarre to the local populace—blond hair, half-bald, with braided pigtail, to say nothing of my light skin.

  As his white-clad bottom is scurrying off in the direction of the village, I climb a large, smooth-skinned tree, seat myself in a comfortable crotch, and settle back against the trunk to watch what is happening in the town.

  Ravi has told me that he can speak Urdu and Hindi as well as English—sort of—having been taught my mother tongue by his late mother's employer, an Englishman known to Ravi simply as Sahib Elphy. The once wealthy man had a large household of Indian servants in Bombay, but when he had fallen on hard times, Ravi was kicked out into the mean streets. I certainly can relate to that, having been booted out into the equally tough streets of London as a young child, after the deaths of my mother, father, and younger sister. It still hurts me to think back on That Dark Day, and I am sure Ravi has similar feelings about his own loss. Ah, well...

  The fishing boats that we had spotted pulled up on this shore earlier are now all gone. I guess the fishermen are out on the briney to cast their nets and tend their lines and earn their daily bread, as it were.

  I settle in, feeling lazy in the sun, and snooze a bit, not having had much rest last night due to the presence of various striped beasts. I drift in and out ... as I dream...

  ...and I dream that I am back in London and there I am at Saint Paul's. And once again I am small and dressed in rags and there is a great sounding of bells and trumpets, and white doves fly about as a grand wedding procession comes pouring out of the great cathedral. And there's Jaimy—oh Jaimy, yes!—at the head of it. And there's flowers all around and on his arm is his new bride and she is blond and I see her face and it glows with happiness ... But ... but she is not me ... It is Clementine Jukes's face that I see, and I start to cry and tears run down my face and Rooster Charlie is suddenly at my side. He puts his hand on my shoulder and says, "Let him go, Mary, you've got to let him go ... because you know you are dead now ... to him you are dead and gone. Me and you now, Mary, just me and you here in the shadow land, me and you..." Then Clementine's face turns toward me and she smiles as she says, "I've got my darlin boy now just like God sent him to me, and you cain't take him back, Jacky, no you cain't." And then her face turns away and when she looks at me again, her face is now that of Clarissa Worthington Howe, who winks and gives me a little finger wave and says, "Ah do believe we are even now, Jacky, you dear little thang: Jaimy for Randall, Randall for Jaimy, fair trade, I say..." And I scream, "No, no, no! Not Clarissa! No, no, not that! Anybody but Clarissa! No, no, noooooooo..."

  "Memsahib having bad dream?"

  I pop open an eye and Clarissa and Jaimy and the crowd at Saint Paul's fade away into the mists of my mind as I see Ravi standing beside me, his toes hooked on a branch, looking concerned.

  "I have had better dreams, boy," I say, shaking the nightmare out of my head and sitting up all groggy. "What's going on in that town? What did you learn?"

  "We are in Burma, Missy. Bottom part. Big cities up north but many rivers for us to cross to get there. They do not know names. They are very simple people. One city that they do know is called Rangoon."

  "Um. You could speak to them? And they understood you?"

  "Mostly yes, Memsahib. Urdu works in many places."

  When we were back in Bombay, Higgins had done some research, as he always does when I'm off being an irresponsible gadabout, and he informed me later that Urdu was actually a combination of Hindi and other local dialects, including some English, cobbled together by the many traders who plied the Bay of Bengal, which is what that water out there is. And so Urdu was in use in several countries that bordered the Bay, this Burma apparently being one of them, which is all that counts now.

  "Who talked to you?"

  "Beggar children. They were much amazed by me and most friendly."

  Ah, the universal tribe of Urchindom, of which I am proud to be a charter member in good standing.

  "What else?" I ask, stretching and looking out through the leafy branches of my tree. I see that the fishing fleet is returning to shore. Hmmm ...Nice looking boats, all brightly painted with neatly trimmed triangular sails. If they were on the north coast of Africa, they would be called dhows. What they are called here, I do not know, but that is not important. All that is important is that they are seaworthy, and they look to be that.

  "Village is all fisher folk," he goes on. "And there is much unhappiness."

  "Why's that?"

  The men of the boats have pulled their nets out and are drying them on racks set up by the shore. One man—a very large man with a huge black mustache—is yelling at them as they do it. Another man is gathering up the catches from all the boats and placing them at the feet of the yelling man. The backs of the other fishermen are bowed, and I am close enough to see that their faces are resigned and without expression.

  "Much sadness. Three peoples of village killed by tigers in past few days. One child..."

  I look over at the woods and know I ain't goin' there no more. So sad for those poor people ... I know their end must have been terrible.

  I see that the men have not pulled their boats far up on the beach. Hmmm... The tide must be going out, and they do not want to strand their boats too high up on the shore. The boats, though small, would still be a hard push to get them back into the surf when next they have to go out.

  "And trouble of other kind, too," he says, following my gaze to the crowd of fishermen on the shore. "A badmash has come to the town. Big strong man. The old headman died and this one took his place. He beats upon the fishermen and takes half of each man's daily catch. Takes their young sons ... and daughters, too ... Much shame in village."

  "Hmmm ... That would be him, then, the badmash?" I ask, pointing out through the leaves at the big man. I don't have to ask what the word means.

  "Yes, Missy, I think so."

  "Does no one in the village stand up to him?"

  "No, Missy. He is too big, and he has mighty weapons—great curving swords. He arms his followers with them and the people are afraid."

  "Hmmm ..."

  "There is one, though—a young man who was to wed a girl, a beautiful girl, and he was most happy. But the badmash find out and say no, he would take the girl instead. The young man stood up against him and was beaten most harshly."

  "Hmmm..." I muse, looking out at the fishermen stowing their gear. "Come, let us get closer, but let us not be seen."

  We climb down from our perch, sling the packs on our backs, and make our way down the beach toward the landing spot. Before we get there, I push Ravi back into the woods and we duck down and crawl on our bellies to the edge of the brush. Leafy branches low over our heads hide us as we peer out.

  That's the badmash, all right. He is free with his kicks and blows from his fists, and a large sword hangs by his side. It is plain that he has his toadies, too. Badmashes of whatever race and place always do. They grin as they carry off their master's stolen catch for sale up in the village. Poor fishermen, forced to buy their own catch with whatever meager goods they've got.

  Grrrrrrr...

  "There, Memsahib," says Ravi, pointing. "That must be the brave young man."

  I follow his point and agree. He has a bandage around his head and many bruises on his face and neck and upper body. He stows his nets, his battered face impassive, showing no emotion ... But I sense something seething within him, yes...

  The fishermen, having put up their boats, begin to leave, trudging back to their village.

  "Ravi," I whisper. "Follow that man and see if you can set up a meeting with me later tonight. Tell him I am from another land and have come to free him and his people from the badmash but will need his help to do it. Be careful,
now. You can't be seen by the bad man's toadies."

  "Do not worry, Missy. Ravi very good at being small and beneath notice of peoples," he says. "But what if young man is fearful of meeting with Memsahib?"

  "Just ask him how much he loves his girl."

  Ravi nods, and with a rustle of leaves, heads off on his mission.

  I roll over and go back to watching the beach and the men upon it. Many are walking away, leaving only the bully headman and a few of his minions. Soon those toadies are gone as well—probably to go up into the village to spread terror and discord—leaving the badmash alone by his own boat, which is painted a very rich yellow. I reflect that I have always been partial to that color.

  The evil man puts his fists to his hips and looks about him, gloating with great satisfaction.

  Yes, badmash, you are king of your world, that's for sure—for now, anyway...

  Chapter 7

  We crawl as silently as we can under the bushes near the hut that sits at the edge of the village. Ravi gives a low birdcall in his throat and it is immediately answered by the appearance of a shadowy slender form that beckons us to hastily enter his dwelling.

  We do it and are soon inside, unobserved by any evil forces, we hope.

  It is a round dwelling with a small fire in the center of the floor and a hole in the ceiling to act as chimney. An older woman, wrapped in once colorful rags, works at a mortar and pestle, grinding grain, of what sort, I do not know, but whatever she is cooking smells awful good. A little girl sits by her side, her big black eyes looking at us in wonder.

  I enter with a length of sailcloth wrapped around my head, so as not to startle anyone right off, and sit down next to the fire. Ravi alights by my side, ready to act as translator.

  The young man who had guided us in does not sit but merely crouches across from us, his gaze level and directed at me.

  I pull off my headscarf and meet his gaze.

  "I am Ju kau-jing yi, beloved of the great Cheng Shih," I say, in case the latter name has any import in this area. "Who are you?"