Chasing Moonflowers, page 8
They sat shoulder-to-shoulder in the cushioned seat while the driver pulled them up the steep slope. Her mother’s closeness made Ling smile. Ahma smelled of sweat, sawdust, and grains of rice.
“Remember, I’ll give you cues. Otherwise, remain silent. Neither of us need to draw attention to ourselves. I am glad you changed into trousers. These men—even your uncle—don't want what’s best for us.” Ahma rarely spoke ill of Dabak. “In this world, men can save a girl or cause her immeasurable suffering. They usually choose the latter.”
“Are you speaking about Ba too?” She refused to consider the possibility that her father wasn’t decent. Her mother shouldn’t speak of him this way. He wasn’t there to defend himself.
Ahma’s expression dropped. “You would ask such….” She paused, eyeing the back of the driver’s head. “I married your father thinking that I had won a prize. He didn’t drink, smoke, or gamble. He had a sturdy ship and worked hard. We were set. But something in him turned. He brooded. Talked of grand plans. Sometimes it is not worth it to fantasize about an impossible future. You can dream when you’re dead.”
“His whereabouts are still unknown,” Ling said.
“Yes, your father could come back.” Ahma’s voice was flat.
The last report had said the ship he’d boarded had sailed out of rough waters, losing a handful of men to sudden storms. But the ship’s notes didn’t list the names of the missing. This was the reason his wage couldn’t be collected.
A bump in the road hurled Ling forward and then back. Her head smacked against the back of the carriage.
“Apologies,” the driver said, wiping the top of his head. “Pothole.”
“A warning next time.” Ahma placed one hand on her chest and patted Ling’s knee with the other.
Ling rubbed her sore head. The landscape swiftly changed from ramshackle homes to farmland. The urban clutter melted away. She glanced into the few simple houses along the road. Families were gathered for dinner. She had once done the same with her mother and father. Wafts of garlic spurred her appetite. She pulled out the tin of her uncle’s salve and rubbed menthol into the special points. Good smells could be shielded as much as the rotten ones. The idea of defense sprang to her mind. She pulled a bay leaf from her pocket.
“Ahma, do you want a leaf?”
“What for?” Ahma shot her a suspicious glance.
“Safeguarding,” Ling recoiled.
“Where do you get such ideas?” Ahma snatched the waxy leaf from Ling’s finger.
She’d thought about suggesting that Ahma rub ointment into phantom points, but her mother’s reaction persuaded her to keep the rest of her suggestions quiet. Ling didn’t dare mention her father’s journal.
Ahma hissed. “Did your uncle have protection when visiting the Lady?”
“Well, he wasn't the….” Ling almost admitted the truth. Her heart skipped. It was better not to speak. Secrets had a habit of slipping from her grasp. “He wasn’t about to share that information with me.”
“Superstitious nonsense has never worked,” Ahma snorted.
As the sky blackened, Ling began to see the top of the armory. The massive structure gazed down upon them with a slight golden glow. Ahma stiffened at the sight of massive stone and wood walls jutting from the earth. An eeriness emanated from the windowless facade.
Ling’s skull tingled as the rickshaw slowed to a halt.
“Ready?” Ahma squeezed Ling’s hand. “Remember: no extra attention. Make yourself as small as possible.”
Ling slid out of the carriage, feeling the foundation tremble under her.
Thirteen
A ringing started in Ling’s ear. Like a mosquito, it buzzed around her head. A grating trill of insects and creatures radiated from the dense surrounding jungle. The air was thick.
Ahma paid the driver to remain close by for the return trip. He grunted, keeping his head down, and wheeled the cart to a nearby tree.
She heard voices whispering from the vegetation. As they walked toward the building, Ling applied more salve on her temples.
Ahma threw a suspicious look at the entrance. Rotting wooden boards exposed a layer of stone in the curved entryway. They paused under it. A gas lamp flickered next to the slightly ajar door.
“Dash it, I forgot my scarf,” Ahma said, running back to the driver.
Ling tilted her head back, her eyes adjusting to the light. Sand rained down from above. Ling licked her lips, tasting the salty particles. Dust clung thick and heavy on her tongue. She shuddered as her nostrils filled with grime. The scent was faintly reminiscent of the Walled City.
Symbols carved in stone littered the entryway. As she explored the etchings over her head, she was reminded of ancient carvings.
Textbooks had documented the evolution of her language. Tangwa had evolved from unrestricted lines into a strict, yet magical writing form. Her vocabulary had been built one picture at a time.
She traced a bronze script for eye (眼):
“Eye” in ancient bone script.
This picture, paired with a “person,” had informed the earliest depiction of “oracle,” a being with skills of divination.
“Oracle” in ancient bone script.
Ling lifted onto her tiptoes. The style of the strokes mirrored the words inked onto her arm. As she brushed her fingers against grooves in the rock face, the images spoke to her.
Thou shalt see.
Ahma hurried back. “Sorry I left you here.” Her mother apologized frequently for small things that didn’t matter. She passed Ling a reluctant glance before leading her into the building.
The inside was dimly lit by flames. A man in a dark uniform sat behind an elevated desk. He didn’t look up.
Ahma craned her neck. “I am here for Dr. Shaw Chi Ming.”
Ling stared into the nostrils of the grim-faced man. He scratched a protruding mustache. “And who are you?”
Her mother didn’t flinch. “A relative.”
“Sit down.” He motioned to the bench at the other end of the room. Light from a desk lamp cast shadows on the officer’s face, darkening the area under his eyes.
The man jotted something down while rubbing the ends of his thick facial hair. His wrinkles creased deeper. He picked up the receiver and dialed.
“Evening… yes, we loaded the most recent shipment.” His eye twitched. “Someone here for Ming.”
Ahma perked up, leaning toward the phone.
“A doctor? Uh-huh… it's only one to see him.” The light flickered, extenuating his cheekbones, jawline, and whites of his eyes. Ahma didn’t react. Had the officer not seen Ling? Testing a theory, she raised her hand and waved. The officer turned his lip but stayed silent. Was it possible that something was obscuring her presence?
Ling was feeling brave, and stepped away from the safety of the bench. Her breath quickened, but she decided to push the limits on an outlandish speculation. She skipped. Her heels landing on the hard concrete echoed. The officer didn’t so much as budge.
Ahma gritted her teeth. “Stop,” she gurgled from her throat.
Ling held up a finger, preparing for a grander gesture.
Ahma eyes widened as Ling waved her hands overhead. “Excuse…” Ahma started to scold, but the man at the desk squinted at the bench. Ling rested her hands back at her sides.
For a few minutes, the officer kept staring. Then he yawned, losing interest in the quiet. “Please keep to yourself.”
Her mother put her hand to her mouth. The officer had not noticed Ling standing in front of his desk. Silence stirred her insides. She was invisible. For the first time, she enjoyed being unseen. The possibilities were limitless.
However, the danger inside the outpost didn’t dissipate. Her senses were put on alert.
She snuck to the side of the podium and caught a glimpse of the officer's shoes. The lamp angled to show off the shiny leather. He reached down to scratch his ankle, exposing a tattooed mark. A set of interlocking eights was inked into his skin. This tattoo gave her pause. It seemed like something she had seen in a book. When he sat up again, she scanned the desk, spotting a pile of letters and envelopes.
The officer still cradled the receiver in his hand. “Unfortunately… the headmaster called earlier….” In response to the person on the other line, he made a ticking sound. “Fine. I counted everything we received, twice. Something smells off.” He sniffed the air, turning his nose downward.
This sudden movement raised hairs on Ling’s neck. She retreated, not pushing her luck further.
“Lady, you’ll see him,” he said to Ahma, returning the phone back to the cradle.
As steady as possible, Ling walked to the middle of the corridor. No one stopped her. It felt incredible and utterly impossible. Perhaps there was value to being ignored.
She slowed as she approached a hole in the wall. From the waiting area, her mother frowned after her. Ling decided to keep investigating. From the opening the width of her fist, a light shone out. Her curiosity compelled her to look inside.
She brought her face close to the rock, smelling the corrupted scent of almonds and bananas. What was this scent? Peering in, she identified the outlines of shipping containers. The entire space was filled, but not likely with rotting fruit. The light inside the room was electric. A shadow moved between the boxes, and Ling crouched down. Her body trembled as if she was in front of Lady Tun’s shack.
She made herself small. Being discovered seemed more likely than her newfound invisibility. What if the officer was just near-sighted? On the ground, an item shimmered out of the corner of her eye. Ling reached over and picked it up. The item was oblong with a flat bottom. Without enough light, she couldn’t identify it. She stashed the thing in her pocket to inspect later.
She got up and ventured further. Around a corner, the corridor sloped downward. The floor turned from concrete to sand. A door at the end of the hallway appeared to lead outside. Two heavy metal rods barred intruders from coming in. This was as far as she could go.
Returning to Ahma’s side, she waited with the little patience that remained in her. She maintained a stillness only by reciting poetry about the sea. Then, she counted the wrinkles on her hand. Once, on Ba's ship, a client with many piercings on her ears and face had read the lines on her palm. Hoops on the seer’s nose had jiggled when she laughed. The reading predicted that her father would live forever, and then she tattooed identical symbols into father’s and daughter’s skin. They were bonds that was supposed to last their lifetimes.
“This is a shield,” the tattooist had said with intense brown eyes.
Ling often glanced at the circle enclosed by a star on the underside of her arm. What had it protected her from? A triangular mound was drawn on the inside of the curve. When she had first gotten the tattoo, there had been three lines. However, two of the lines had long since faded. She was unsure what the marks meant, but their existence reminded her of her father’s expected return. He had to be scheming somewhere, loading his found treasure and almost ready to return home.
After far too long, the doors at the end of the corridor swung open.
“Mrs. Shaw,” called a man waving from the area where Ling had snooped. He wore a brown uniform, similar to those of the arresting officers. Ling pinched her mother’s arm.
A wind blew through the hall, whistling through the crevices as they walked. Ahma narrowed as the wall sconces flickered. Ling marched behind her mother, examining the rows of symbols along the passageway. The writings were similar to the cave-like drawings over the entryway. White flecks had flaked off the walls, showing a poor attempt to cover up the marks with paint. But the coats couldn’t cover what cried from the stones, what pressed out through the many layers of paint.
A stout officer grunted at her mother and led them to a small room. Dabak sat behind a table in middle. Blood stained his collar. His glasses balanced on the bridge of his nose, though they were cracked and crooked now. His legs and arms were shackled by chains.
Not looking up, he said, “You shouldn’t have come. Nothing. Do you hear me? Nothing in this material world will help.” He turned an inch toward Ling. “I already told you what to do.”
Ling’s mouth went dry. Ahma didn’t know Dabak had left her with two notes.
“Let us maintain civility,” said another officer in a raspy voice. Ling recognized this one from the docks. Her face grew hot. This was the man who had thrown disrespectful comments at her uncle.
Ahma thrust herself into the empty seat across from Dabak. She cupped her hands around Dabak’s fingers. Ling stood behind her mother.
“Headmaster Lee was adamant that you get to see him, so here you are. Pray, say what you must, for it may be the last time.” The officer directed his statements past Ling to Ahma, who held her stoic silence. She didn't even blink.
“Ahhh, another mute,” the officer said, before slamming the door.
No one moved, each studying the other’s shock. Then Dabak let out an audible sigh. Ling wanted to leap up and hug him. But when she opened her mouth, her mother jabbed an elbow into her side.
“Ohmph,” Ling swallowed at the unexpected thrust.
“How are they treating you?” Her mother laid her hands on the table. Dabak did the same.
“As good as any man with false charges.” His eyes dulled.
Ling bit her lip.
“The business,” Ahma said in the tongue of the ghosts. She glanced sideways at Ling. English wasn’t their preferred language. “We hope you are healthy and safe.” She elongated the last word. It was an odd way of speaking.
Dabak held out three fingers on one hand.
“I will do my utmost to take care of your customers,” Ahma said.
He nodded. “Yes, the fifteen will keep you busy.” This was an out-of-place thing to say. There were much more than fifteen customers on any given day. His list of private patients included more than fifty.
Then it dawned on Ling. They were speaking in code.
Ahma and Dabak were playing a clever ruse. She hadn't thought her mother to be so calculating. But she was coming to realize that their whole lives, her family had been hiding things.
Ling stored the numbers in her mind.
3-15
Dabak tapped the table. “It’s like what they say about the tea pots. We must have enough lids.”
“Always about teas and flowers,” Mother smiled, an unexpected display of humor. It was quickly retracted.
Dabak switched to their familiar tongue. “I will be out by the next moon.” He used yut, the formal verbiage for the moon, as if quoting a Tang poem; this was a longing word. It was also thirty-one days long. “If we’re lucky, less than two days.”
Ahma lifted her eyebrows. Ling noted the days of this month minus two.
3-15-29
“You can put my house in order.” Dabak squeezed Ahma’s hand. His face held a scowl, but something sparkled in his eye. Then he lowered his head and whispered words she could barely make out. “We’ll be the walking dead… warn others… efforts by the Queen to move against the strike.”
Mother’s mouth quivered. “How do we know?”
“Everything is here.” Dabak shot Ling a knowing look. “Se galoth nauth.”
With a sinking feeling, Ling recalled these words. The language from the seaside shack had followed her home. After Lady Tun’s death, these guttural phrases were whispered to her. They stuck fast in her mind. How did her uncle know this tongue?
Ahma’s eyes grew wide.
“This is how you save us….” Dabak lowered his head to the table. “The rites, Dho-ur...” As his mouth twisted, calling syllables from outer worlds, two policemen burst into the room. Ahma backed up against the wall as the smaller officer grimaced.
“No more nonsense.” His thin voice frayed at the edges. He was nose-to-nose with Ahma. The officer raised his hand, about to strike. Then his arm shook, suspended, preventing him from bringing down his hand. It was like something held him back. No one moved. The officers both scowled.
“What are you all doing?” The other man in uniform grabbed Dabak. “All right. Let’s see how long he lasts.”
Dabak screamed. “I am a doctor. Not a scribe.”
The officers gnashed their teeth, pushing her uncle out of the room. Ahma and Ling followed them. In the corridor, more officers rushed out from unknown directions.
A random voice shouted at her mother, “If you bring back the Lady’s fortunes, then maybe he’ll get to leave.” In a quick instance, they evicted Ahma out the front door, leaving Ling alone in the hall, apparently still unseen. From what her uncle said, there were still things left for her to find.
Ling watched Dabak disappear down a corridor. The commotion dissipated as others returned to their rooms. Every door was locked. As she passed the empty front desk on her way out, Ling heard Dabak’s words again: “Walking dead, efforts against the strike.” She eased herself around the counter, examining papers the desk officer had been concentrating on. She rifled through the stack, passing over what looked like shady notes and illegal receipts. She stopped at a cargo boat’s manifest, dated a week ago. The name “Jose Da Silvia” and the number “7-1” were scrawled at the top. Ling’s stomach dropped. The contents of the delivery turned on a light in her head. Her uncle’s message became clear. From foreign lands, weapons had been delivered to Kowloon. Hundreds of sacks of gun powder, rifles, and grenades. Her fingers went to the object in her pocket, which under the lamp was clearly a bullet. After pocketing the manifest, Ling exited the outpost.
Outside, in the dark, Ling put her hand over her heart. Violence had skipped over them. Whether it was the bay leaves or a special force inside the outpost, she understood that she had been aided by something unseen. She held the words Dabak passed on. His hints would save lives, prevent their community from being destroyed. There must be a plan to fight back. The people had to be told about the weapons. Someone had to stop the casualties.
