The Mystery of Yamashita's Map (28 page)

Fraser was aware of a shadow crossing him. Suddenly things got darker and colder – something was blocking out the sun. He opened his eyes and saw Winthrope standing over him, and beside him, cowering, was the woman who had left moments ago. ‘You do not like our hospitality?’ Winthrope asked.

Fraser was taken aback for a moment. There was something in the tone of voice that he did not like, something that made him wary. ‘It’s fine . . .’ he managed after a while. ‘I just need some time on my own.’

‘Perhaps,’ Winthrope continued sarcastically, ‘You don’t like the women?’

‘No, they’re fine, fine . . . I just need to be on my . .’

Winthrope interrupted him. ‘No, you misunderstand me, perhaps you don’t like THE women?’

Fraser thought he realised what he was insinuating. ‘Well, I’ve never had any problems before.’

He felt a sharp pain around his jaw. Winthrope had struck him and Fraser fell to the ground. He clutched his mouth and tasted the sharp, iron tang of blood on his tongue. ‘You will like our women, or you will regret it!’ Winthrope said menacingly. Fraser looked up and saw that he had a small club in his hands. Suddenly the pain in his jaw seemed a hell of a lot more understandable. He got up off his knees and swung his fist but Winthrope was too quick and Fraser was never much of a fighter. Again he landed in the mud, the force of his missed punch sending him off balance.

Joe and the professor awoke sleepily at the noise and stared in amazement as Fraser, for the second time in as many minutes, tried to pick himself up off the floor. He spat a mouthful of blood into the dirt and shook the grogginess out of his head.

‘You will enjoy yourself, while you’re here, or you will feel that again, do you understand?’

Fraser nodded. He was not about to try and hit out again. He figured you had to admit if you weren’t a fighter. Winthrope raised his hat to the professor and Joe and left, leaving the woman to pick Fraser up and wipe the blood from his chin.

‘What the hell was that about?’ Joe asked.

‘Do yourself a favour,’ Fraser told him. ‘If they ask you if you want anything, say yes.’ For the first time in his life Fraser felt that he was being pushed against his will to pair up with a woman, any woman. It wasn’t his style. He still hoped that there might be a chance with him and Lisa. He felt uncomfortable taking advantage of the host’s gracious hospitality, but hey, when in Rome...

The women of the village busied themselves making the hut. Some carried wood from the jungle on their backs, some wove leaves and ferns around the struts that made the side of the building and still others daubed its walls in mud made in small pits around the hut’s perimeter. Within a few hours it was made and the whole village, it seemed, gathered at its opening. Winthrope was there and beside him Lisa. Winthrope cleared his throat and began to speak.

‘It gives me great pleasure to declare this new building open. It’s not often that we are lucky enough to welcome four visitors into our village, three of them strong and virile men . . .’ He gave a quick glance at the professor and corrected himself. ‘Two of them strong and virile men. We have seen, over the years a sharp decline in our fortunes. These people have known tragedy and they have known pain but, hopefully, this is behind us now. Now we can start again, a new beginning for mankind – out of the ashes of the past a new dawn will arise. With the help of our friends we can make a better life for these people and, who knows, we might even be able to forge a new life for the whole world. If we show the way, perhaps they will follow. When the rest of the world has gone to rack and ruin we will be here with our bright faces and our strong hearts, right here on this island, a glorious paradise, a little piece of heaven right here on earth.’

He bowed his head and there was silence. Fraser did not know whether to laugh or to cry. The speech, although beautiful, had made a curious impression on him. He felt, suddenly, as if he knew what Winthrope had been talking about. He looked around himself at the bright smiling faces of the villagers and thought of the streets of Hong Kong, or the streets of London or the streets of New York; he remembered the scowls and the growls and the pushing and shoving; he remembered how he had hated every moment of shopping at Christmas or trying to get home in the rush hour. He could feel his heart melting.

Winthrope raised his head and made his way inside. He motioned to the older women to join him and for the younger ones to lift Joe, the professor and Fraser inside. Lisa followed on behind, feeling forgotten and ignored. She had realised that now they had found the men she was largely redundant. As she made her way through the doorway she met Joe’s eyes. He smiled at her and she smiled back, feeling as if a bridge had been crossed somewhere and there was no going back to the relationship they had once had.

Inside it was dark but Winthrope lit the fire and it roared into life. The girls put the men down so that they formed a circle around the fire. One of them offered a pipe to each of the men, who refused, but accepted the milk that another offered; Winthrope took a pipe and smoked it with his legs crossed looking for all the world like a village chief.

Joe looked at him and laughed. ‘You’re no more a villager here than me, Winthrope,’ he said.

‘What is a villager and what not?’ Winthrope asked. ‘I live here, that makes me a villager, whatever colour my skin is, whatever my facial features are. I am here so here is me.’

Joe thought for a moment. ‘But why are we here?’

Winthrope laughed a little. ‘All in good time. Are you comfortable, gentlemen? I can bring some more cushions if you want. I had to show the girls how to fashion them from leaves and interlaced vines myself; however, they’re only comfortable up to a point.’ He shifted his buttocks to get comfortable. ‘Can I offer you more milk? Water? I would offer you wine, a nice Merlot perhaps, but as you can appreciate it is a little difficult to get out here. I have heard of a drink the men used to drink here but I have yet to try it. Perhaps I will this year.’

Fraser took the opportunity to ask Winthrope about the village. ‘Where are the men? Did they all drink their drink and die? Were they poisoned?’

Winthrope shot a glance at Lisa. ‘The men are dead,’ he said. ‘They all contracted flu, common or garden flu. The virus was too much for their systems and they all died while on a trip looking for Yamashita’s gold.’

Suddenly the professor’s ears pricked up, his eyes opened wide and his face was a picture of intensity. ‘You know of Yamashita’s gold?’

Winthrope laughed. ‘My dear professor, that’s why I’m here, that’s why you’re here, that’s why anyone is here. Except these lovely creatures; they had the misfortune to be born here.’

The professor’s eyes narrowed as his brain clicked into gear. ‘Do you know where it is?’ he asked

‘The gold? If I did, do you think I’d be sitting here, professor? No, I’d be lying in a mansion built with the proceeds. The general was a clever old stick, he knew how to hide things from the rest of the world – the Americans especially. I have been over most of the island and have never even had a sniff of the treasure. I have heard tales of it, though.’

‘Tales?’ Joe asked.

‘Yes, of the kinds of artefacts there, and the kinds of fate that await those that find it. I came here, you see, with a party such as yours. We were ready and willing to hunt for the treasure wherever we thought it might lie. However, we did not count on the belief in the spirits of the jungle.’

Joe felt his heart grow cold suddenly. He too believed in the spirits of the jungle; he had seen them and felt their presence.

‘You don’t believe in them?’ he asked, whereupon Winthrope looked guiltily around him.

‘I believe as much as I allow myself to, which is to say to the extent that it benefits me. I am a man of science, I was a doctor in another life, a medical man, how could I let myself believe in ghosts and spirits? The aswang, the dwendi, they are all names to me, not entities.’

‘The dwendi?’ Joe enquired, not wanting to hear the answer to his question.

‘Little people, can be good or mischievous, the locals leave food out for them, just to keep on their good side.’

Joe swallowed hard. He would have said the same himself until a few days ago.

‘However, it’s the aswang that come to me at night,’ Winthrope added.

Joe and the professor looked at each other with fear in their eyes.

‘They come to me in dreams. Oh, I dare say it’s because I spend so much time thinking about them, you know what Freud said about dreams – they are the royal road to the unconscious and all that. I suppose they might have some deeper significance but they come to me at night.’

‘What do they say?’ Joe queried.

‘Say? Oh, nothing much. They show me a tunnel, a dark tunnel that reeks of death, people, bodies. They make me feel its claustrophobia – no doubt the effect of the jungle on a man’s mind. Then they show me . . .’ He hesitated for a second. ‘The golden Buddha.’

The professor almost fell backwards from his bed. He gathered himself quickly and sat intently looking at Winthrope. ‘You must tell us about the golden Buddha,’ the professor exclaimed. ‘You simply must.’

Winthrope rocked back on his haunches. His face grew cold and uninviting. His eyes closed momentarily and then opened, to reveal their full, shocking colour. ‘You seemed interested in the golden Buddha professor. I wonder if that is why you are here.’

The professor was taken aback and stammered out an answer. ‘I, well, we are here to find the golden Buddha, yes, and the rest of the contents of Yamashita’s gold. For the past and for the future, for the sake of history and knowledge.’

Winthrope laughed and the women that surrounded him followed suit. ‘History and knowledge won’t get you very far out here, professor. There is no history in the jungle. To have history is to progress and there is no progress here, only life, day after day, year after year, life. That’s the beauty of it.’

The professor shot a hard look at the man opposite him. ‘I’m not from here, Winthrope. I’m from Hong Kong, where history is more important than anything else, perhaps even the day to day.’

‘The golden Buddha, as you probably know, professor, is only the outer casing for what lies inside. Hundreds upon hundreds of years of wealth, collected by the monks of temples throughout Asia, stolen from them and brought here. It was so revered by the men who carried it that they were not allowed to look at it as their bent backs ached and broke under the weight. It is said to be so beautiful that to look upon it is to render the rest of your life useless. These people, these simple people, are not Buddhists. They know nothing of Buddhism’s teaching or its creed but even they speak in hushed tones about the golden Buddha, the giver of riches and the taker of lives.’

‘The taker of lives?’ the professor asked.

‘Yes, professor. How many men died carrying it here? How many men died burying it underground in the tunnel designed by Yamashita? How many men are still down there somewhere, clutching it, praying to it maybe?’

The professor grew agitated. ‘It was not the Buddha that killed them. It was the general, the army.’

‘That is as may be, professor, but superstition is a powerful thing. And so they visit me at night to tell me these things, to make me aware of the situation. The aswang come to me and make sure I am thinking about them and the Buddha – or is it my thoughts telling me about the aswang? I don’t know, I don’t suppose it matters in the long run. The gold will never be found.’

There was silence in the hut. The women were hushed and the men had downcast eyes. Lisa looked at the professor and the professor at Lisa. Neither knew what to do. They knew that they would probably never find the gold without Winthrope’s knowledge but doing that meant opening themselves up to him. Could they trust him? Could they rely on him? Lisa thought not but could see, in the face of the professor that he thought otherwise. She tried to communicate a message of procrastination to her uncle, who merely nodded wisely – there was nothing said but everything had been understood.

Fraser suddenly found his voice. ‘So why are we here, Winthrope? And why won’t you free us?’

Winthrope smiled and rocked backwards. He placed his hands on his knees. ‘There is one thing that we need more than anything here, and that is men. As I explained, the men were all killed, the women think by the aswang, I know by the flu. Which puts us in the unfortunate position of, shall we say, having the birds without the bees.’

The professor was startled. ‘You don’t mean what I think you mean?’ he asked.

‘It’s simple biology, professor, think nothing of it. We have good stock here. Good breeding, intelligence, fine muscles, strong backs; everything we need to start again.’