Johnny Winchester: River Hunter (10 page)

The weeks flew by, as they always do, whether one is
having fun or not, and Suzi’s injuries healed, Johnny’s Alaskan quest was
successful.  He and his crew subsequently traveled to the Bennie Haha
river basin in Tibet, searching for the fabled Tibetan Flying Dragon fish.
 The emails, as Johnny had predicted before he left, were no longer daily;
there had to be a satellite within range for him to connect.  But they
were regular and, even though each of them wished for more, they both kept the
tone to one of casual friendship.

And then one day, an email from her younger son arrived
in Suzi’s inbox.  She hadn’t heard from him in weeks, on second thought,
it had been months.  Ashe had indeed emailed him about her accident and he
was quite concerned.  In fact, he was so upset over her brush with death
that he was sending her plane tickets to meet him in Beijing, where he had some
meetings and would take a few days out of his schedule to spend with her. 
Visiting China was a concept she had never gotten used to; when she was growing
up, people who went to China didn’t always come back.  But things were
different now, the next generation was oblivious of past dangers, and she
longed to see her son so, checking with her boss first, her return email
assured him that she would be there.  Between work, emails from Johnny,
and planning her trip to Beijing, Suzi was very busy, and very excited.

Johnny, on the other hand, wasn’t having any luck with
the Tibetan Flying Dragon fish.  Everyone he talked to claimed to have
seen at least one and pointed him up river, but no matter how far up river they
went, it seemed to be completely devoid of fish.  They couldn’t even bring
in bait fish, yet alone fish for meals, so they found themselves in an
unforgiving canyon, with dwindling supplies.  After a long day of fishless
angling, Johnny, his crew, and their translator-guide discussed the
situation.  The main shortage of supplies was a protein source, but they
reckoned they could make it a few days on what they had, so everyone, except
the translator-guide, wanted to move further up the canyon, one more time, and
take one more shot at the fabled fish.  After all, they’d never be here
again.

The guide was very upset with the decision.  He had
been getting more and more nervous as they had traveled farther and farther,
and now he was babbling about an enemy that lurked further up the canyon, a
menacing foe that would surely take their lives.   Retiring early, he
was nowhere to be found when the camp came to life at dawn the next morning; he
had slipped away in the night.

Johnny and the crew revisited their decision, but the
consensus was that the dangerous foe ahead was probably spirits that resulted
from superstitious beliefs, so they broke camp and started out.  About
midday, Johnny climbed a ridge to survey the river and found what looked like
the perfect spot just below.  As soon as they could manage to get out their
gear and equipment, Johnny got a line in the water.  Almost immediately,
he had a bite and, though he failed to set the hook, he was undaunted and tried
again.  Within an hour he had another strike, this time setting the hook,
and realized he had a very big fish on his line.

Wrestling with what he hoped would turn out to be a good
explanation for the Tibetan Flying Dragon fish for more than an hour, he
finally saw flashes of purple and silver breaking the surface of the
river.  Completely engrossed in the battle, he didn’t notice the band of
traditionally dressed natives, armed with massive knives and bows set with
arrows, sneak up and quietly overtake the crewmembers.  It wasn’t until
one of them stepped directly in front of Johnny and cut his line with a very
large knife that he looked around and assessed the situation.  The
complete disbelief and disappointment at having someone free his quarry turned
into fear for his life and the lives of his crew.

The band leader barked out some incomprehensible orders,
the natives confiscated every bit of equipment and then herded the men together
at knifepoint.  Though they didn’t understand a word, the band’s intention
was clear, so they walked in the indicated direction and within an hour came
upon a small village consisting of a cluster of lodges.  After being
shoved into one of the huts, two armed guards were posted inside the door, and
who knows how many were outside.

Johnny and the crew tried by turns to communicate with
the guards, but they only received grunts and threatening gestures involving
large knives.  So the men sat around the fire pit in the center of the
one-room lodge and tried to figure out who these natives were and how they were
going to communicate with them; they also discussed, at length, what their fate
might be.  Just before sunset, two women came through the door with wooden
plates filled with fish, rice, and wild greens.  A third woman arrived
with jugs of fresh, clear water; she set them down and lit a fire in the
pit.  Again, they tried to communicate, but were ignored all around.

The food was simple, but tasty, though it was lost on
the captive men.  They decided that if the natives were going to kill
them, they wouldn’t be feeding them ample servings of precious
commodities.  Even so, the night passed slowly and there was little sleep
to be had.  Warm woolen blankets had been provided, but the dirt floor was
hard and unyielding.  The morning brought bowls of rice with some sort of
broth, but nothing else.  Johnny had hoped the leader, or someone in authority,
would come in and try to communicate, but it wasn’t happening.  There was
no figuring out why they’d been captured or why they were being kept warm and
fed.

The day passed exactly as the day before; no
communication attempts were successful, nothing whatsoever happened to give
them any clue as to what was going on, and long, futile discussions about their
fate were undertaken.  An evening meal, much like the one the night before
was brought, the five men ate and braced themselves for another long night. 
But an hour later, the wool blanket covering the door was pulled back, the two
guards stepped aside, and a young white man ducked through the door, into the
room.

Late twenties, tall (but not as tall as Johnny), with
black hair and translucent blue eyes.  Sitting, cross-legged, he asked “Do
you speak English?”

“Yes, we do!” Johnny said with great relief.

“What the hell are you guys doing here?”  He had an
American accent, and more than a hint of irritation in his voice.

“We were fishing,” Johnny explained.  “We’re doing
a fishing documentary and we were looking for the Tibetan Flying Dragon fish.”

“Yeah,” he said. “I got the fishing thing.  But
why?”

“Because that’s what we do.  It’s for the cable
channel Beasts ‘R Us.  We were looking for the fish and all the natives
said they were up river, so we came up river.”

“You came without a translator?” the young stranger
asked.

“We had a translator, but he was nervous about coming
this far and fled from camp the night before last.”

“And you didn’t see that as some sort of sign?”

“We thought he was talking about spirits, not actual
unfriendly natives.  I had no idea there was any real danger.”

The young man shook his head.  “Here’s the
thing.  These people are called the H’Sing and the people on the other
side of the river are called the
Y’Sing
.  They
have been at war with each other for centuries.  Literally.  None of
them have seen many Europeans and you can bet they’ve never seen the likes of
your equipment, so they thought you’d been brought in by the
Y’Sing
with new weapons to come kill them with.

“You’re lucky they didn’t pump a bunch of arrows in you
at the river or do a slice-n-dice right here.  Instead, they decided to
take your weapons and keep you contained and send for me to see if I could
figure out what you were doing here.  I had to go through all your
equipment and gear to explain what everything was until they were convinced
there were no weapons.  Coming all the way from Europe to fish is a
completely foreign concept to them.”

“I’m truly sorry to upset these people,” Johnny said
sincerely.  “I tried to find a way to communicate with someone, but no one
would even try to understand.  We don’t want to hurt anyone or cause any
problems.  We meant no harm
a’tall
.”

“Did you even research the area before you came?”

“Yes, we did,” Pete answered.  “There wasn’t much
information about the area this far up the canyon.  But it didn’t seem
like it would be that different from down river.”

“Are you all Brits?”

The men exchanged glances.  “Yes,” Johnny finally
answered.

“That explains it.  I’ll go tell the chief that
you’re harmless and we’ll plan to leave at daybreak.  We’ll need to scale
the canyon wall to get to the plane that’s waiting for me.  My mom, who I
haven’t seen in months, is coming in to Beijing tomorrow and I was planning to
fly out today, you know, to take a shower and meet the plane.  But when
they came and got me…I couldn’t really leave without coming to check on
you.  There should be enough room for you guys and all your stuff.”

“Thank you.  We really appreciate that,” Johnny
said, a little ruffled by the kid’s attitude.  “If you don’t mind me
asking, who are you?”

“Name’s Ewan.  I’m an anthropologist, I do research
in the area.”

“I see.”

Ewan stood.  “Get some sleep.  The canyon wall
is pretty steep and will be quite a hike. 
G’night
.” 
And he was gone.

The guards remained and the dirt floor wasn’t any less
hard, but their emotions were easier that night and they were able to get some
sleep.  Ewan had them up before dawn and they moved out at first
light.  The canyon wall was, indeed, steep and scaling it was no easy
task, taking most of the morning.  The plane and its pilot were waiting at
an airstrip about two miles from the lip of the canyon; Ewan hurried them onto
the plane and the pilot into the air.  Once they were on their way, he
seemed to relax, though he kept checking his cell for reception.  When he
got into a zone, he typed several text messages and sent them off.

The plane wasn’t much for comfort, but at least there
were no native guards with long knives standing at the door, and they’d
certainly traveled in far worse.  Their young host wasn’t very talkative,
either texting or sleeping the entire way, so they didn’t talk much, though
each was wondering how close they had actually come to being hacked up by the
H’Sing.  After several hours in the air, the descent began and the pilot
lined up the plane with a dirt airstrip.

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The flight from San Francisco to Beijing was non-stop,
but it was still long.  By the time the plane landed, Suzi was ready to
greet her son and get to the hotel.  While she waited for her luggage, she
checked her phone and found several texts from him, the last of which told her
she would need to find a cab.  The text phonetically spelled out what she
was to say to the driver, so she expected it was Mandarin for Marriott, which
was fine, she could go to the hotel and rest until he arrived.

With her luggage in tow, she found a line of taxis
waiting for fares and spoke the phonetic phrase to the driver of the one at the
head of the line.  Smiling, she supposed at her accent, he nodded
immediately and they were off.  She knew the city to be large, so the long
drive didn’t worry her too much, until the businesses and homes began to
thin.  Getting the driver’s attention, she repeated the phrase, to which
he nodded again, pointed, and made a sign with his hand that she took to mean
‘a little.’  She was at the mercy of her son’s phonetic Mandarin and the
driver’s understanding of it; all she could do was wait until the driver left
her somewhere and hope for someone who spoke English.

Less than five minutes later, they pulled up to a small
airstrip.  She paid the driver and went into the hut that served as a
terminal.

“Missus Cue?” the young woman inside greeted her in a
heavy accent.

This was a good sign, though it clearly wasn’t the
Marriott.  “Yes,” she answered.

“Ming,” the young woman said, pointing to herself.

“Nice to meet you Ming.”

Nodding, she then pointed at three chairs next to a
window that looked out onto the dirt airstrip, and said, “You come. 
Sit.  Wait.  You need, come Ming.”

Her son had said he would be a little late, but he hadn’t
given any details; she was beginning to understand why.

“Thank you,” she said as nicely as she could to
Ming.  As she started towards the chair, Ming ran to take her
luggage.  Thanking her again, Suzi sat, wondering how long the wait would
be.  She loved her kids, but they didn’t always do things the way she
would.

It was only forty-five minutes later that Ming
announced, “Here come!”

A plane, lined up with the dirt airstrip, approached,
touched down, and came to a stop a few yards away from the makeshift
terminal.  The propellers slowed, eventually stopping, and a door opened,
the stairs unfolding from it and settling on the ground.  Several men
descended the stairs, the youngest of which broke from the rest and strode
quickly into the hut.

“Mom!” he exclaimed.

“Honey!” Suzi called.  “It’s so good to see you.”

A big hug ensued.  “Are you all right, Mom?”

“Yes, honey, I’m fine.  All healed up.”

“I’m really sorry to drag you out here after a long
trip, but these idiot fishermen got caught by the H’Sing and I had to go sort
it out.”

“Rescuing idiots is important.  I don’t mind.”

The rest of the men, all in dire need of a shower and a
shave, walked up at about the same time as the hug was over.  Suzi watched
them approach.