The Book of Bones (14 page)

“Enough of this.” Waldo's face was an inch from mine. He had a pimple at the corner of his nose. A huge red pimple.

“Listen to me now!” he pinched me hard on the check. Shocked, I jerked away.

“Get up.”

I realized I had sunk down on the platform. Shakily I tried to stand up but just swayed back and forth.

“It's the opium, you silly ninny,” Waldo grabbed my arm. “It's gone to your head. You always were soft up there.”

Isaac and Rachel were staring at me through wide, shocked eyes. They looked very alike, dark, curly-haired, judging me. It was as if I had done something
wrong
.

Roughly Waldo heaved me up. I stood against him, panting a little, still feeling woozy.

“This is foul,” he said. “We're leaving.”

“All right. No need to shout.”

Waldo was pushing me. I blinked, shaking off the clouds in my brain.

“I can manage, Waldo.”

Yin was prodding a bundle of rags. As I moved away, her hand reached out, clutching at me, though Waldo was pulling the other way.

“Come,” she pleaded. She was surprisingly strong.

“No.” I tried to shake her off.

“You come.” She pulled at my arm, tearing the fabric, while Waldo pulled on the other side. Yin's grip was stronger and I was forced back to the platform. The lumps of rags rolled over and I was shocked to see white skin and pale hair. I stood over the thing.

“Mrs. Glee?” I said at last.

Lying on her back, Mrs. Glee looked at me but didn't seem to see.

“It's not,” Waldo said to me. “Can't be—”

“Shush.”

“That really you, Mrs. Glee?” Waldo asked.

The woman's face was gray. She was unwashed and emaciated, in the grip of the drug. All her jewelry was gone, the gold wedding ring she always wore had vanished. She looked at us dumbly, her eyes dull. As we stood over her, urging her, something sparked. She realized for the first time who we were.

“We're taking you away,” Waldo said.

She shook her head.

“You're coming with us,” he insisted.

“It's no use.”

“We're leaving. Now.”

Together we pulled Mrs. Glee up and hitched her between our shoulders. Limply, she allowed herself to be dragged away. We got to the exit without attracting much interest as everyone in the den was in their own poppy-tainted world. But at the door a broad Chinaman in padded trousers and maroon jacket barred our way. He had beady eyes and a pigtail tied with red satin.

He grunted something at us in his own language.

“We're taking this woman, like it or not,” Waldo growled, with Isaac scowling at his side.

“Wantchee 100 yuan for smoke.”

“Pay the man, Rachel.”

Rachel handed over the coins and we dragged our governess out onto the street. The air blew the last opium fumes out of my mind. Waldo's eyes were upon me as he lifted Mrs. Glee through the dirt and spent fireworks. Flushing a little, I looked away. Not your finest hour, Kit, I told myself. I couldn't understand the dream state that had come over me in the den. All the others were gagging on the fumes, but they were not overcome.

I had no time to brood on my shortcomings as we had to flee this place as fast as we could. Somehow we found
a cab and managed to heave ourselves in. The horse clopped its way through the throng of painted women and staggering opium addicts while I sat stiffly overcome with a mixture of pity and disgust. Mrs. Glee was prone, seemingly unaware.

We journeyed out of the Chinese quarter back to the broad boulevards of the International Settlement. We had almost reached our destination on Bubbling Well Road when Mrs. Glee woke up and looked at me.

“You can't do it,” she said to me.

I looked away.

“Do what?” Rachel and Waldo answered in unison.

“Get away from them.”

“From whom?” Rachel asked.

“The Brothers. I tried and tried. When Mr. Glee died I thought I could do it. I ran and ran. I ran so far that I thought they would never find me. But they did. I was a housekeeper then. They found me and they gave me that stuff.”

“The Bakers
fed
you opium?” I broke in.

She nodded. “They trapped me with that stuff. I need it more than life itself. It is the only reason I have to go on.”

“Well, your path is clear,” Rachel said slowly. “You must give up the poppy and escape the Bakers.”

“I can't do it.”

“If you don't try, you'll never be free.”

“I
won't
. You can't make me. What's the point? There's nothing left for me any more.”

I bit back the retort that was on my lips, and as I did my eye fell on Yin. She was coiled in the corner of the carriage, a glint of light under her half-closed lashes. As always, remote from our agitation. Old doubts—and new questions—came crashing into my opium-dimmed mind. How had she known Mrs. Glee was in that den? Were they in secret contact? It seemed Yin could sniff out misery just as a cat sniffs out vermin. This was another example of the feline way Yin prowled through life.

“I'm not sure I like her, and I definitely don't trust her,” I said.

“Shush,” Rachel whispered. “She can hear us.”

Mrs. Glee was asleep in the big bed beside Yin, who did not seem to mind the stale smell coming from her. The boys had gone to their room and Rachel and I talked in whispers as we lay on our hard mattresses.

I raised myself on an elbow and looked at the two of them: Yin was breathing regularly, her back to the odorous Mrs. Glee.

“She's asleep.”

“Oh, Kit, how can you not like Yin? As for trusting her, she
saved
our governess.”

“Yes, but how did she know she was in that den?”

“She has these feelings. You know that, Kit. Why do you distrust her so?”

“Someone has to look out for us, make sure we're not walking blindly into a trap.”

“I'm tired,” she sighed. “Give it a rest.”

Rachel shuffled over and soon was snoring gently. But my mind would not rest. I was anxious that we seemed to be following Yin's whims. Yet at the same time I had no better ideas. She had shown us that her instincts were moving toward something. She was still
odd
, and my doubts about her were like hard little lumps that would not go away. Yet, yet … If the rest of us were lost in a fog created by the Baker Brothers, she seemed to see a beacon shining somewhere. Some force was guiding her. Could we do better than follow it?

She was
different
, this slip of a girl. Not only for her culture, which was so strange to us, but because she lived much of the time in a sort of waking dream. We were learning that China is a society bound in many layers of manners. The Chinese like to keep the door firmly shut on foreigners. My other foreign friends, the Egyptian boy Ahmed and the Indian Maharajah, had odd beliefs too. But I'd never found another person as hard to understand as Yin.

The next morning, as we rose, some of my foreboding of the night before had evaporated. I decided to trust Yin, for now. We talked, or rather the others talked, while I watched the waters of the Woosung through our bay window. They told Yin the whole story, revealing details we had not mentioned before. How the Bakers had kidnapped us. How they had poisoned one of our
number, thereby trapping all of us in their net. We told of the aches and pains that had beset each and every one of us on the boat, though less so since arriving in Shanghai. We had no idea who was sick. Who would die.

My friends also told her how the Bakers had found a strange elixir in the Himalayas, those snowy peaks that tower above the Indian plains. These waters had miraculously restored their youth to them and concealed their rotten souls in shining new flesh. Now they wanted to “perfect their perfection” and believed the Book of Bones would help them do it. If we didn't bring this fabled Book back to them, one of us would die.

Yin knew the Book. She had grown up in its shadow. She'd already realized the Bakers wanted it, so in some ways our story was not new to her. Curled up on the window seat she listened to our story. By her side was an empty bowl. She had not been able to wait for breakfast so a waiter had brought her dumplings, which she had demolished in record time. It was rare, now, to see Yin without her mouth full of the sticky things. Still, they were at least starting to fatten her up a little.

The only thing about Yin I was beginning to understand was her love of dumplings. The rest of her was still a mystery.

“We must do what the Baker Brothers say,” she said. “We find Book of Bones. I already say we go Peking. I
know someone who help us.”

“You really think we should try to find this Book?”

“Yes.”

After breakfast, and more dumplings for Yin, we decided to set off to book our passage on a junk traveling up the Grand Canal to Peking. This is the oldest man-made waterway in the world and said to be much more splendid than the canal in Oxford, of which I am so fond. But before we set out, there was the matter of Mrs. Glee to attend to. Our governess had slept like a goat. I'm not complaining, but my friend and I had passed an uncomfortable night.

“She can't come with us to Peking,” I hissed to Rachel. “First sniff of opium and she would betray us.”

Even Rachel, good, soft-hearted Rachel, saw the foolishness of dragging our governess along. When we came to tell her our plan, Mrs. Glee was tearful. I backed away and let my friend deal with her.

“I've made a mess of my life,” she told Rachel. “I'm nothing but a burden to you.”

“How did you get away from the
Mandalay
?” Rachel asked. Mrs. Glee was always looking for someone's shoulder to cry on now so it was wise not to give her too much of a chance.

Mrs. Glee had merely shrugged. I was finding it hard to cope with my former governess. How could someone
be so
weak
? I stood at some distance from the two of them and let Rachel do the talking. I knew my anger was unreasonable. At the same time this whole situation was unfair. Mrs. Glee had been engaged as our governess. She was meant to look after us. Instead she had betrayed us and now we were looking after
her
.

I knew Mrs. Glee had had a hard life—the snippets of her story that I'd heard showed that. Still, couldn't she just
try
a little bit harder? Luckily Rachel is kinder and more sympathetic than me.

“Will Mister … um … Lips … come looking for you?” Rachel asked gently. “Vera, tell us. What are you going to do? How can we help you?”

In the end I left the room to see about getting our trunks. We only had one small one each to be taken by a porter down to the docks. When I returned, the matter was settled between Yin, Mrs. Glee and Rachel.

Mrs. Glee was to stay in the boarding house. We had paid for her board and food but left no money for opium. She would help the lady who ran the boarding house and try to get better and await our return. Guiltily, at the back of my mind, I wondered if we would come back. On the whole, though, this decision was a huge relief to me, for I found it hard to look our governess in the eye. The thought of dragging her through China as we ventured on our dangerous path had weighed on me.

It was mid-morning when we arrived at Soochow Creek to book passage on a boat north. A vast floating water-world greeted us. Hundreds—no, thousands—of sampans were roped together, hull to hull. They made a sort of giant, disjointed raft. The river folk, in their wide-legged trousers, some of them bare-chested, hopped from craft to craft. Many lived their lives on water, never venturing onto dry land.

There was a huge variety of craft on the river—elegant wooden junks with their hulls sitting low in the water, sails fluttering in the breeze, the river gay with multicolored banners and pennants. Modern steamers puffed smoke from their red funnels. The Emperor's war junks were especially striking. The evil eye was carved on their prows to ward off ill luck and they bristled cannons with red-painted mouths. But though the cannon looked fierce, they were fixed and were armed with useless old-fashioned shot. Any reasonably swift British clipper could outrun their guns.

“Which of these boats will take us to Peking?” Isaac asked, looking around wonderingly.

Yin's tiny frame had already slipped through the throng. She had walked up to one of the junks and was on deck, talking to a sailor. She beckoned us to follow and we climbed up the ladder after her.

“This man want to see you. He is the captain of ship. He take us Peking,” she said.

But the sailor, a Chinaman with a high shaved forehead and pigtail hanging right down his back, was frowning. On his shoulder a monkey gibbered menacingly at us. I hated monkeys—ever since my experiences in India with a particularly savage one.

“No Bignose,” he said to Yin. “No Red Barbarian!”

The monkey shrilled at us.