The Blue-Eyed Shan (24 page)

Her pleasure deepened, her smooth tan cheeks mantled, but she rebuked him: “You must not say so. Have you met Naung?”

“No.”

“He is a good man. He has been loving with Lola.”

“Good indeed, as all say. And he is First Rifle.”

She meditated for some moments, saying then, “I never spoke of him, but he wanted me before you came, and I sent him away. He was a soldier in Laos and Tonkin.”

“A traveled man and surely a good soldier. Lola”—he shifted ground—“I have brought you a gift; not much, but from the heart.”

“Green Wood!”

“Loi-mae,” he said more quietly, “I bring no gift, only myself. I could not know if I had the right.”

“It will do,” Loi-mae assured him. “As well you brought nothing; but for Lola, yes.”

“Naung is … a difficult man?”

“No more so than any man. But you were wise to refrain.”

He saw again the stacked wooden bowls, the larger pot, the quern to grind grain or pepper. The hanging straw mat was rolled away now. At night it would hang where it had always hung, and Loi-mae and Naung would enjoy privacy.

“What, then? What have you brought me?” Lola cried. “Do you tell and not give?”

“Some daughter,” Greenwood grumbled. “Who has taught this one manners? Or omitted to?” He held forth the package. “For my beautiful Lola.”

Lola tore at the thick brown paper. As the scabbard came into view she exclaimed, ecstatic. “O! It is
mine?
”

“And you must care for it as a warrior would.”

“Where is it from? Who made it?” She drew the knife and danced a few ceremonial steps, slashing.

“It is from a land in the far north,” he said, “with snow and ice the whole year, and it was made by men who wear furs and hides the whole year. The haft is carved from the antler of a northern gyi, and the sheath is of his hide.”

“Green Wood!” She rushed to fling her arms about him.

“Ow! Put that thing away! Fine thanks! You pricked me.”

“I love it,” she said again. “I will wear it always.”

Wear it when that Weng-aw comes around.” But Loi-mae was waiting, Loi-mae had more to say, or perhaps did not, and expected more of him, or pehaps not. He felt once more gangling and young.

“I am glad with all my heart that life has been good to you,” he said, and the simple speech rang awkward and insufficient.

“I am glad with all my heart that you remained solid and did not shrink away,” Loi-mae said lightly. “You were skin and bones when I first set eyes on you.”

“I was still growing up. Without you I would not have become a man. Even now I am not fully a man without you.”

“Do not talk so. It is not seemly now. Besides, it was fighting and killing that made a man of you.”

There was justice in that. It was a pleasantly neutral and gossipy statement. Greenwood had, over the previous month, steeled himself to a variety of possible emotions at this reunion, a resurgence of love, sudden revulsion, remorse, dismay, mellow friendship, chatty indifference. He was perturbed now to feel embarrassment, like a man taken in adultery, or an impostor.

Loi-mae and Lola were prosperous and happy, and he could think of nothing original to say.

Yang. His mind leapt to General Yang and his old bones. Where was the smiler now? If Yang was dead, if Greenwood lingered here too long … Do no harm.

“Can he not sit down?” Lola asked. “He is my father and this is my house. Who will sleep here tonight? Green Wood or Naung?”

Greenwood and Loi-mae burst into relieved laughter.

At sunset—early, as West Slope cheated them of an hour—Greenwood and a ten of leaders sat upon the grass outside the Sawbwa's house. The Sawbwa was jubilant, strutting about in an old, genuine Arikara headband from North Dakota, of buffalo hide. Greenwood had considered bringing him a full-feathered war bonnet of the kind sold in souvenir shops, but was now sufficiently mature to dismiss condescending frivolities. Trouble enough when some future savant found a Pawnee headband in a Shan village. For the people of Pawlu he had brought five hundred rounds of ammunition, 7.65 millimeter and .30 caliber. This was a gift of importance, and the council had assembled in a relaxed and jollified mood. Za-kho instructed Ang-ang the Woman-in-Common to serve them. There was Wan; there was Kin-tan; there was Mong; there were half a ten more; and there was Naung. Jum-aw was off lying to Chung's daughters about the big town.

No one had said, “Green Wood, this is Naung,” or “Naung, this is Green Wood.” No one had to. The American sat cross-legged and Ang-ang set before him hot pork, glutinous balls of rice, a bowl of chicken and spices. He sniffed, and his soul was replete. His teabowl was replenished. He waited until all were served and Za-kho had pronounced a blessing.

As they fell to then, his eyes met Naung's. Both took the moment calmly, neither speaking nor nodding. The conversation remained general—crops, weather, the war in China. Greenwood told them that all was quiet over by Sumprabum, Myitkyina and Bhamo. The sun set, but light lingered long in the clear sky. “This afternoon I saw a cloud,” Za-kho reported.

“I saw it too,” Naung said. “A little rain would not go amiss.”

Greenwood had disliked Naung's face at first glance, a tough, suspicious face with an aggressive jaw and theatrically rich black brows; now he noted the fine teeth and sympathized with the sparse but ambitious beard.

“There will be no rain yet,” the Sawbwa said.

On this matter he was never wrong, Greenwood remembered.

Later Greenwood asked easily, “Naung, how is that French submachine gun?”

Naung could not suppress a smile. “My mitraillette. A good weapon within fifty paces; after that, wild as a frightened hare. Also, there is no provision for the single shot. But one feels safe.”

“As with mine. How many rounds do you hold?”

“Thirty-two. Of the seven six five long.”

“Eh. I have only thirty, but more like eleven millimeters.”

“I remember the power of it,” Wan said.

“I have three or four more catties to carry around,” Greenwood said.

“Yes, much heavier, it would stop a leopard,” Kin-tan said, “but Naung's is more accurate beyond twenty paces, which is sufficient for defense.”

“I have the single shot,” Greenwood said. “You have a higher muzzle velocity, I think.”

“That seems of little importance,” Naung said. “The bullets fly fast enough, and who will measure the difference?”

At this they laughed, and Greenwood acknowledged the jest with a lift of the teabowl. He asked Za-kho, “May I drink to the bride and groom?”

“How not, how not!” Za-kho called out, “Ang-ang! Wine for all!”

“Well, and how about rum?”

“A good idea,” said Mong.

“Mong, you bag of sticks. My heart is full.”

“It is a day Pawlu will remember,” Kin-tan said.

Still later, boozy, they asked and Greenwood told the tale. “You remember the smiling Chinese general.”

Wan slapped thigh. “Do I remember! Phe-win loved the man! He left a gold piece. We have it still. And he was an honest smiler. He knew a joke when he heard one and he smiled only for reason.”

“A general?” Naung asked. “I have heard the story, but I allowed for natural exaggeration. Perhaps a colonel, I thought.”

“No, a general,” Greenwood said. “A major general then; you remember the shoulder board with one star? And he has three stars now, a full general and a man of some importance.”

“To whom?” Wan asked.

“Always a plain blunt man, Wan.” Greenwood mulled the question. “Well then: to me.”

“That is sufficient,” said Kin-tan.

“Thank you.”

“And what has he to do with us? Will you proceed into China?” Naung seemed hopeful.

“No.” Greenwood delayed; drank; wiped his mouth on his sleeve. Flames danced, shadows danced, across the dark field voices rose and fell, the black sky was spangled white. In the end Greenwood said, “He is fleeing China.”

“May the gods speed him,” Wan said. “May he flee all the way to Siam, or Tonkin. Mind you, I liked him. But generals.”

“Well,” Greenwood said, and plunged, “he is coming here.”

In the silence Greenwood prickled, as if he would soon sweat.

“That is not for you to say,” Naung told him.

“Well then, he is on his way. There was no time for other plans and no one to trust with a message. And the truth is, I do not know if he is dead or alive.”

“It is unreasonable,” Naung said testily. “Why can he not flee to the Chinese islands like the others? Or to Tonkin? Or out along the Burma Road?”

Greenwood said, “First: he was trapped by war, and cut off, and so moved west and south. Second: he would risk capture at frontier stations, as along the Burma Road, capture by the Chinese Communists or by the Burmese authorities. Third: he has something I want.”

Wan said, “Ah.”

Naung's eye was steady and knowing.

Kin-tan sipped pensively.

By God, here was a falling-off! Greenwood sat perplexed, vaguely ashamed and not sure why. The prodigal son! These simple valiant souls, the lovely compliant woman. The adopted Shan. Well, had he or had he not saved their skins? Our little brown brothers.

He called for more rum. Damn! He had expected ebullience, bustle, the excitement and approval of warriors with work to do.

Naung said, “He will not enter Pawlu.”

“Pawlu owes Green Wood much,” Kin-tan said slowly. “During the war not one Japanese set foot in Pawlu and not one Englishman either, and the Wild Wa never crossed the road. Yang too killed his Wa.”

Naung made no reply. Naung had fought the war elsewhere.

“And the weapons,” Wan said. “Rifles and ammunition and those pistols. Green Wood never came home empty-handed. American weapons and English and Japanese. And with Naung's loot from the French after the Long-Haul-with-Koko,” he added tactfully, placatingly, generously, “Pawlu is armed for our lifetime.”

“You could meet him in Nan-san,” Kin-tan said.

“I do not know that he will come by Nan-san; or on foot or mounted or by air. It must be here.”

“Perhaps nearby,” Wan suggested.

“He will not enter Pawlu,” Naung repeated. “You will go to Nan-san and we shall bring him to you there.”

If it is the woman, Greenwood wanted to say, if it is Loi-mae, I will do no harm. You need not send me away.

The others were silent, until Wan spoke. “His bodyguard. Who comes with him?”

“A guide, perhaps, and a few armed men, surely, to defend against bandits.”

“It is true,” Naung said, “that the hills are full of Kachin.”

“They fought well,” Greenwood said.

“So did we all,” said Naung.

“The Kachin fought on my side,” Greenwood said.

Naung drank deep.

“Not all of them,” Wan said. “Some Kachin, like some Shan, hated the English.”

“I meant no slight,” Greenwood said.

“I liked the general,” Wan continued. “He displayed a sense of propriety. He was old and wise but not officious.”

“When he smiled in starlight,” Kin-tan said, “it made noon.”

At that the Sawbwa chuckled moistly. “He bowed to me always.”

“He bowed to the Sawbwa,” Wan said solemnly.

Naung drew lines in the earth with his short dagger. Za-kho's fire flared. Greenwood stared into it until his eyes ached.

Naung said, “One hesitates to pry. Nevertheless, it is our village. What does this general carry that is so important?”

Still gazing blindly into the fire, Greenwood said, “The true bones of his ancestors.”

“That is very Chinese and commendable,” Naung said. “And why do you want them?”

Greenwood peered up unseeing at the night, and waited; slowly a blizzard of stars pricked out the velvet black sky. How explain these old bones? How count off half a million years?

“Five lakhs of years,” he began.

“Now, that is a long time,” Naung agreed.

“So long ago were those bones laid down. So long ago did those first men and women live and die.”

“Yes, and there are some who say we have been here for ten lakhs of years and more. Yet are five lakhs venerable. Your general is a deeply religious man. Still we do not know why these bones are of interest to you.”

Let me tell you all about world capitals, universities, learned societies, international conferences, man's endless struggle to identify himself. As well tell of ice in the south. “No earlier Chinese bones are known. So these are holy bones to all priests and scholars.”

“Ah well, now we have it,” Wan said. “Green Wood is a scholar, with his writings and his making pictures, and he will achieve eminence with these bones.”

“That is making much trouble for eminence,” Naung said.

“It is much eminence,” Greenwood told him.

Kin-tan said, “Green Wood. A well-laid ambush. And we will spare your general or not, as you wish.”

“The man is my friend,” Greenwood said. “By the gods, Kin-tan! Yours too! He fought beside you and shared your rice and your wine and your jokes. And now you would set his life at hazard?”

“Naturally, you cannot set his life at hazard,” Naung said. “Yet you set Pawlu at hazard.”

“I see no risk.”

“An unknown number of unknown men are to descend upon Pawlu so that you and this general may pay old debts.”

“I see no danger.”

“It seems to me,” Wan said, “that the question is, how much does Pawlu owe Green Wood?”

“That is well stated,” said Kin-tan.

“I cannot know what Pawlu owes Green Wood,” Naung said, “so I will shut up. My advice is to let no outlander into Pawlu.” He slipped the dagger into its sheath and rose swiftly. “I rose at first light and am tired. Kin-tan, will you visit the sentries?”