The Mark of the Golden Dragon (5 page)

Shaking such idle thoughts out of my head, I take my shiv and begin cutting the nuts off their very tough stems. One falls, then another. There are lizards all over the place up here, but they seem harmless. Hope so, anyway. When six nuts have hit the ground, I go back down.

Ravi stands there.

"Missy Memsahib is very good at many things," he says, looking at the fallen nuts.

"Well, I have been around," I say by way of explanation as I hit the ground. "Here, let's see how you've done at the clamming."

He has been doing quite well, it seems. A pile of the creatures is heaped upon the sand, squirting out their juices in their clammy way.

"Here, Ravi, sit, and let us eat." I sink down and sit cross-legged and reach for the big clam that lies on top of the pile.

I slip the blade of my shiv into the shell and pull it around the edge, making the resident therein give up the fight, as well as the ghost, I suppose. I scrape along the bottom, and then the top of the shell, and lift up the whole thing to let its contents slide into my open mouth.

Ravi looks on aghast.

I chew lightly on the clam, but hard enough to rip open its fat belly and taste the sea, and then let it slip down my throat. Not bad—not as good as the oysters we used to get back in Boston, but, hey—not bad at all.

I open up the next clam.

"Here, Ravi. Your turn."

He blanches and his dusky face turns several shades paler than usual. He gulps, then says, "Eating living thing, Missy, not good."

"They are not living, you little fool, not since I cut them open."

He is not convinced.

"That unfortunate creature there is wiggling," he says, pointing at a still-moving part of the clam I hold out to him.

"There," I say, stabbing at the throbbing part with the point of my shiv till it stops its quivering. "Satisfied? Now eat it. You cannot be of use to me if you are half-starved. So do your duty. Remember, I am the President of Faber Shipping Worldwide and you are but a mere lowly employee, Seaman No-class Ravi."

"I am not a slave? I thought I was slave to you."

"No, you are not. I am completely against slavery in all its forms. However, I am ordering you to eat that clam, because I am bigger than you."

"As you wish, Memsahib. Ravi will risk his karma for you," he mumbles, tipping the clam shell up and his head back in imitation of me. He manages to get the clam down his throat without gagging.

"Um. Not too bad, Missy. Very slimy. Very salty."

"Yes, I know. We shall have some sweet water next, but here, have another."

He gets another one down and says, "Maybe now Ravi will come back as tiny clam in next life for eating of these poor creatures."

"Well, I am sure you would come back as a very pretty little clam, Ravi—lovely blue stripes on your shell and all. There are worse things, you know—you could come back as a British seaman."

He nods and we continue eating. Soon there is a pile of glistening empty shells. There are, however, a good number of uneaten clams, and those I wrap up in a small square of canvas for later eating, should we not find more on our trek north. I put a bit of soggy seaweed in with them and soak the whole thing down with seawater; they should keep. I shove them into Ravi's pack.

Then I turn to the coconuts. I sit down and take one of the green nuts into my lap. With my shiv, I begin hacking away at the husk at the top of the nut. It takes a while, but soon enough I've exposed one of the eyes of the hard inner shell. I poke in that soft eye with the point of my shiv and then lift the coconut up over Ravi's wondering head.

"Open up," I order. He does as I tip the nut and a stream of coconut milk comes pouring out of the punctured eye and into his open mouth.

He swallows and then gulps again. Doesn't take the picky little heathen long to appreciate
that
fine draft.

"Oh, Missy, that is so good!" he says, as the milk goes down his throat and the excess spills over his cheeks.

I then direct the stream into my own mouth.

Ummmm ... yes, that is so, so good.

After we have gorged on the milk of three coconuts, we sling our packs onto our backs and continue our trek north. We could've set up a permanent camp back where we washed ashore, but ain't nobody gonna be comin' to look for us. In the eyes of those onboard my fleet, we are surely dead, so we must push north and trek onward. Which is what we do.

As we walk, a tune comes to my head, "The Rocky Road to Dublin," and I sing it out.

In the merry month of June from me home I started,
Left the girls of Kerry so sad and brokenhearted,
Saluted father dear, kissed me darling mother,
Drank a pint of beer, me grief and tears to smother,
Then off to reap the corn, leave where I was born,
And fright'ning all the dogs ...
On the rocky road to Dublin!

One, two, three, four, five,
Hunt the hare and turn her
Down the rocky road
And all the ways to Dublin,
Whack-fol-lol-de-rah!

"Is nice song, Memsahib," says Ravi. "Though I do not understand meaning."

Thus encouraged, I continue.

In Donegal that night I rested limbs so weary,
Started by daylight next morning light and early.
Took a drop of the pure, to keep me heart from sinking,
That's an Irishman's cure
Whenever he's on to drinkin'.

One, two, three, four, five,
Hunt the hare and turn her
Down the rocky road
And all the ways to Dublin,
Whack-fol-lol-de-rah.

There is something about that tune that seems to fit in this foreign land. I don't know why, but it does. Sure wish I had my pennywhistle to try it out. We shall see ... Maybe I'll find one out here, who knows.

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!

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.