The Blue-Eyed Shan (21 page)

“Unlike us,” Mong sang out. “I cannot speak for Naung, but old Mong is drunk as a lowlander.”

“Well, I am flying fairly high,” Naung admitted. “Anyway, to come to the point.”

“Truly a day of miracles,” said Wan. “Naung comes to the point!”

Naung allowed himself an obscenity of the first rank. “I had no business there. I had just spent six years of my life in slavery, and in slavery mainly to myself. True, I was a soldat de première classe and I had earned a raise in pay, which is important, and I knew weapons. How I knew weapons! If I had an ounce of silver for every stripping and reassembly I performed, I would buy Mandalay.”

He swigged at his rum. “Well, I went down to Hué on furlough and I heard a man speak, a great orator and his picture on the outer walls of many houses. He was an Annamite who had traveled much and learned much. I remember he had changed his name from Nguyen Ai Quoc to Ho Chi Minh. And he made me ashamed to work for the French, so I knew it was time to leave. I considered: Of what use was my knowledge without the weapons themselves? What gift could I bring to my people? Well, this is a world in which people kill one another with persistence and for insufficient reason; self-defense is therefore no sin and no crime. I could bring arms to my people. I could make Pawlu—are you young fellows listening?—a fortress to stand forever.

“I chose carefully—my weapons, my moment and my companions. To return with one rifle and one pistol to show for six years of service was to shame myself. My companions were therefore Koko and Foch, two mules of which Foch, after honorable service, was eaten.”

On the women's side Chung was saying, “This is the tedious part.”

“It is quickly over,” Loi-mae said, “with all of us pitching in. Lola, those bowls, scrub them out and polish them with paddy mud.”

“They ate everything,” Chung said with satisfaction, “and now they will drink all day and all night.”

“Lucky Cha. No cleaning up.”

“Lucky Cha is right. If I know Ko-yang, she'll be gone for days.”

“O, men,” Loi-mae sighed.

“O, Men,” Lola sighed.

“You be quiet.”

“A beauty,” Chung said. “Listen, Loi-mae, I always wanted to ask.”

“Then ask. About Green Wood, I suppose.”

“Not at all. I liked Green Wood and would never pry. I only wondered …”

“Go on, go on.”

“The foreign women. Are they as we are? Did Green Wood say? Have they breasts like ours, or little bumps, or nipples only?”

“Breasts like ours,” Loi-mae said. “Some small, some large, some divine like Chung's.”

“You make fun,” Chung said. “But what you say is good news. Green Wood was a stout fellow—many a time I watched him bathe in the stream—so the women of his line are healthy, and if Lola grows a good pair of breasts, she will be a real goddess and worth her weight in silver.”

“And if not? She will still be a good wife to a good man and worth her weight in gold.”

“I never said no. But she is a rare beauty even now.”

Loi-mae saw Lola's gaze slide toward them. “You're listening!” she called. “Never mind what Chung says. Or that Weng-aw either.”

Chung scoffed. “Weng-aw! A jokester!”

“It is no joke. Already he caresses her. I want her to wait till her moon cycles.”

“Absolutely right. Would he force her?”

“Never!” Loi-mae said. “Long before it came to that she would force him.”

“O Lord,” said Chung.

“I chose two husky mules,” Naung was saying, “and lashed down balanced loads of ammunition, in both sizes, and two of those crates are still in the Sawbwa's house, the eight millimeter because all the old rifles use it and the seven six five for the mitraillette and the pistols. Those mules complained! I had rifles and binoculars and rations, everything but mortars and machine guns. And we all marched down the trail, and the French army turned south, and I, Naung of Pawlu, stopped to make water and then turned north.”

“And well done,” the men murmured. Hazily Naung glimpsed Taw-bi loping over the crest of West Slope. “Well, that eighty-day trip was as nothing. With the caravan I had women, food, even wine.” Why would Taw-bi leave his post? Naung squeezed some of the drunkenness out of his eyes. “But now I was alone, skulking through the jungle, traveling by night and hiding by day, this day in Laos and that day in China; and always seeking fodder and water for my brace of mulish companions.” If Taw-bi was after beer or rum, Naung would disgrace him in public. “The hunting was poor—this was during the first Lesser Cold after the war. So I had to trade a weapon here and there. It went against the wish of my soul, but there was no choice. Then Second Mule, old Foch, died of overwork, so I sold what I could, butchered the beast, and pushed on. Before the rains, you see—Pawlu before the rains, or all was lost.”

Taw-bi was not loping. He was running hard. The men stretched and some came to their feet. Belches rang out. “Always at the best part of the story,” Naung complained. “Anyway, it took me three months and when Koko and I shuffled into East Poppy Field Kin-tan almost killed me. If I had not lost so much weight on the long haul, the bullet would have had me. I was skinnier than Mong.”

“Never regretted it,” Kin-tan said absently. The men had ceased to follow Naung's tale. No one said, “Something has happened,” because it was so clearly true.

Taw-bi waved. “Strangers,” he shouted. “Travelers. From the west.”

“Go arm yourselves,” Naung told the men. “And sober up. You boys, join the women and be of use.” To Taw-bi he called, “How many?”

“Two. Mounted. Armed. Half an hour off and in no hurry.”

“Oh well, two,” Naung said.

“More cages to carpenter,” Mong sighed.

As they dispersed Ko-yang came trotting up. “Do we muster?”

“Two strangers,” Naung said, “and no you do not muster. You have other duties to discharge.”

“Go fight with Cha,” Wan called. A little laughter rippled across the field, a little nervous laughter.

“That can wait,” Ko-yang said. “Where do we gather?”

“At the Sawbwa's house,” Naung said. “Taw-bi, who is on West Trail?”

“Shwe and Tang, with the twins in support. Shall I bring everybody in from East Poppy Field?”

“And leave us open there? Think, man, think.”

Taw-bi blinked sheepishly.

“Is Shwe awake, at least?”

“Shwe is all right,” Taw-bi said firmly. “He dozes, but he has never shown a pale heart.”

“True,” Naung said. They were trotting toward Naung's house, where his beloved mitraillette lay ready. “O Lord, I drank too much.”

At the Sawbwa's they assembled quickly and in good order. Naung deployed one squad south of West Trail; with another he would straddle the trail. Unless they were directly attacked, there would be no firing of weapons until Naung had opened up.

“Today we must not kill,” the Sawbwa said, “for Ko-yang's sake and Cha's.”

Za-kho, still in his saffron folds, said, “There will be no firing of weapons at all.”

“Cure the soul,” Naung said. “Leave the body to me.”

“It is a wedding day,” Za-kho insisted. “We have called upon the gods, and they have taken notice of us.”

The men made no answer.

“On a wedding day in Pawlu the stranger must be made welcome,” Za-kho said.

Naung deferred to Ko-yang.

Ko-yang said, “It is my wedding and Cha's, and I will take the bad luck on myself. Cha has agreed that I should do my part, and if we must kill, we must. The Lord has made this day, and this wedding, but he has also sent these strangers.”

Naung said to Za-kho, “You and your planets. You and your favorable hours.”

“The Lord is my master,” Za-kho said, “and not easy to know.”

The Lord is my master too, Naung decided, but the mitraillette is my servant.

8

Greenwood's Return

Since the war Greenwood had not come awake so fast. He took in the rifles, swords, daggers, pistols, turbans and jewelry. Shan, four of these were Shan, one perhaps Chinese, the little one he supposed a lowland Burman.

His hands conspicuously empty, he played the host: “Blessings and greetings.” Yunnan ponies, large saddlebags, no women—that was bad—marauders living off targets of opportunity, namely Greenwood.

One of them said, “Greetings and blessings.” He was a swarthy man with a droopy black mustache and cunning eyes. Greenwood was afraid now. He and fear were old acquaintances but had not met for some time; he fought to dispel it, to sharpen his wits and see through this shameful fog. “A rare thing,” the man said. “Lonely travelers in these hills.”

With enormous effort Greenwood rubbed his eyes and yawned casually. He saw that Jum-aw was terrified, eyes huge, mouth trembling.

The swarthy man said, “And with a tamigan.” There was also a large stout man whose presence was for some reason comforting; perhaps it was the old prejudice, fat men are slow and easygoing and even-tempered. This particular slow, easygoing and even-tempered fat man carried a machine pistol, of what nationality or make Greenwood could not distinguish.

“The tommy gun is an old companion,” Greenwood said. He stretched and groaned, adding suitable morning sounds, and opened his shirt to scratch his hairy chest.

Swarthy shot a glance at Fat Man. Greenwood noted this with hope, and removed the shirt altogether, flapping it as if to free it of the night's effuvia, or of any stray nats that might have taken shelter in a sleeve.

They were openly curious about his tattoo; yet good manners prevailed. “Doubtless the traveler has a destination,” Swarthy said.

“Perhaps Motai. Perhaps Fang-shih. I am only seeing a bit of the world.”

“And the young one?”

“My hired guide and porter.”

None of these men seemed to blink. They stared like falcons. Greenwood could not sort them out, this one friendly, this one a coward, this one cruel, but he recognized their hostile solidarity. He remembered himself and a small squad of Kachin with two Japanese prisoners. Greenwood had sat even as Swarthy sat now, calm, inscrutable, God, weighing, judging, dispensing life and death. That day he had dispersed death and the memory assailed him now.

One of the Shan, a strapping fellow of about thirty, said, “Ask him what he carries.”

“I will ask him when I am ready to ask him,” Swarthy said, with another quick glance at Fat Man. “First I will ask if there is news or gossip.”

Greenwood said, “Light me a cheroot, Jum-aw.” The boy needed help, attention, a function. This was a cool dawn in the mountains, but sweat glistened on the smooth lip. “Come on, boy!” To Swarthy Greenwood said, “He may reach into his pack?”

“Slowly,” Swarthy said, and smiled a perfect villain's smile.

“Come now, Jum-aw. These are only Shan brothers.”

Jum-aw seemed to breathe for the first time; he fumbled for a cheroot, groped for matches, lit up and passed it to Greenwood, who was nauseated by smoke before breakfast but said “Thank you” in the most amiable tone possible, and to the Shan as a group, “Who will join me?”

Strapping said, “This one thinks he is a sawbwa.”

Swarthy said, “What is the gossip?”

“Well, all is calm up around Sumprabum, Myitkyina and Bhamo. Probably the end has come China-side. This we had from a Tibetan peddler, and it is all I can tell you.”

“Then tell me what you carry.”

“Not much. A little food, a little clothing, a few coppers. But, of course, what a man carries is his own business.”

“Until he is dead,” Strapping said. “Then it becomes the business of someone else.” The band laughed, a nasty babble in this peaceful sunrise.

“I had hoped to delay that event,” Greenwood said. “The long sleep should be long at the latter end only.”

This occasioned more laughter, a bit cheerier.

Swarthy said, “I can tell you what I ask myself. I ask myself why this Big Nose is speaking Shan, and why he shows a Shan tattoo.”

An older man with a vacant face said, “And what is so interesting in that? Everybody hereabouts speaks Shan.”

“It is very interesting,” Swarthy said, “and no one asked you. This is an Englishman.”

“I thought we threw the Englishmen out,” said the older man.

“Please shut up,” said Swarthy, and to Greenwood, “You are an Englishman?”

“An American.” Greenwood felt seasick, and from more than cigar smoke. His fear was shameful.

“Ha!” This was clearly the “Ha!” of a man who is not sure of the meaning of what he has just heard; a “Ha!” that might be translated, “I have noted this extremely important datum and am giving it solemn consideration in the light of my extensive knowledge and experience.” Greenwood had known a colonel who said “Ha!” much in that manner and conferred immediately with a lieutenant colonel who made the serious decisions. Now Swarthy darted another glance at Fat Man.

Greenwood was a touch giddy but drew on his cheroot patiently. There seemed little else to do. He must not vomit.

“An American is a kind of English,” the little brown Burman said.

“I know that,” Swarthy said impatiently.

Greenwood squinted at the wee Burman and threw the dice. There were moments in life when the stakes were high enough to justify long odds. “Aha!” he said. “The turban is a Shan turban but the voice is the voice of Shwebo near the river Mu. You are some way from home, my friend.”

Swarthy turned furiously to the Burman. “What is this? You know this man?”

“I never saw him! By the gods I swear it! Besides, I am not from Shwebo!”

Greenwood asked swiftly, “Then where?”

“Wet-let,” the little man said.

“Which is two hours' ride from Shwebo!” Greenwood cried in a tone of triumph. All this proved nothing, which he hoped no one would notice, but control, command, confidence, had shifted very slightly from them to him.