Once into the current, they floated quickly downstream. They left the lantern with the boatman, but the moon shone brightly through the trees. Still, Nok Lek kept close to the riverbank. “Not enough light for friends to see, but enemies can,” he whispered.
The river twisted through tree branches and past fallen trunks. The boy negotiated the current skillfully. The roar of insects was not as deafening as it had been in the jungle, as if hushed now by the susurration of the river as it ran its fingers through the shivering tree branches.
The banks were thick with foliage, and occasionally Edgar thought he saw something, but each time he convinced himself that they were only shifting shadows. An hour into their journey, they passed a clearing and a house on stilts. “Don’t worry,” the boy said. “Only a fisherman’s hut. Now there is no one there.” The moon shimmered above the trees.
They floated for many hours, and the river dropped swiftly through steep defiles, past overhanging crags and cliffs. Finally, at a wide bend, Edgar saw a collection of flickering lights. The river carried them toward it, quickly. He could discern buildings, then movement on the bank. They pulled up next to a small jetty. There, three men stood watching them, all in pasos, all shirtless. One was taller than the rest, his skin pale, a thin cigar hanging from the edge of his mouth. As the boat slowed, the man took the cigar and flicked it into the water. He reached down and extended a hand to Khin Myo, who gathered up her hta main and climbed onto the dock. There she bowed slightly and moved forward, slipping into the brush with the ease of one who had been there before.
Edgar climbed out of the boat.
The man looked at him without speaking. The piano tuner’s clothes were still soaked with mud, his hair matted against his forehead. He could feel the dried mud on his face crack as he smiled. There was a long silence and then he slowly raised his hand.
He had thought about this moment for weeks, and about what he would say. The moment called for words fit for History, to be remembered and recorded once the Shan States were finally won and the Empire secured.
“I am Edgar Drake,” he said. “I am here to repair a piano.”
Book Two
I am become a name;
For always roaming with a hungry heart
Much have I seen and known—cities of men
And manners, climates, councils, governments,
Myself not least, but honor’d of them all,—
And drunk delight of battle with my peers,
Far on the ringing plains of windy Troy.
I am a part of all that I have met;
Yet all experience is an arch wherethro‘
Gleams that untravel’d world whose margin fades
For ever and for ever when I move.
Some say that seven suns, and some that nine were created, and the world became like whirlwinds; there was no solid part remaining.
12
Edgar Drake was led by a porter along a short path, past a sentry, and through a dense brush. Ahead, lights danced, framed in the branches of scattered trees. The trail was narrow, and the brush scraped his arms. It must be difficult to move a column of troops through here, he thought. As if to answer him, Doctor Carroll spoke from behind, his voice loud and confident, with an accent Edgar couldn’t place. “Excuse the difficulty of the trail. It’s our first line of defense from the river—with the brush, there’s no need to build ramparts. You would probably appreciate how hellish it was to carry an Erard through here.”
“It is trouble enough in the streets of Londpn.”
“I can imagine. The brush is beautiful too. We had a little rain last week, rare for this time of drought, and it came alive with flowers. Tomorrow you will see the color.” Edgar stopped to peer more closely, but realizing that the porter was far ahead, he began to walk again, quickening his gait. He did not look up again until the brush ended abruptly and they entered a clearing.
Later he would try to remember what he had dreamed Mae Lwin would look like, but the first vision overwhelmed all past imaginings. The moonlight swept over his shoulder to a cluster of bamboo structures that clung to the hillside. The fort had been built below a steep mountain, cresting about a hundred yards beneath its precipitous face. Many of the buildings were connected by stairs or hanging bridges. Lanterns swung from roof beams, although with the light of the moon, they seemed almost superfluous. There were perhaps twenty huts altogether. It was smaller than he had expected, flanked on either side by thick forest. He knew from the reports that there was a Shan village of several hundred people behind the mountain.
Doctor Carroll was standing at his side with the moon at his back, the details of his face dark. “Impressive, isn’t it, Mr. Drake?”
“They told me so, but I hadn’t thought it would be like this…Captain Dalton tried to describe it to me once, but—”
“Captain Dalton is a military man. The army has yet to send a poet to Mae Lwin.”
Only a piano tuner, Edgar thought, and turned back to look at the camp. A pair of birds flew across the clearing, cooing. As if to answer their song, the porter who had carried Edgar’s bags from the river called from the balcony on the second tier of houses. The Doctor answered in a strange language, which sounded different from Burmese, less nasal, with a different quality of tone. The man left the balcony.
“You should go to bed,” said Carroll. “We have much to discuss, but we can wait until morning.”
Edgar started to say something, but the Doctor seemed intent on leaving. Instead he bowed slightly, and bid the Doctor good night. He walked across the clearing and climbed the steps to the porter. On the balcony, he paused to catch his breath. It must be the altitude, he thought, It is high on the Plateau. He looked out and caught his breath again.
Before him, the land sloped to the river, a gentle descent through scattered trees and brush. On the sandy bank, a cluster of dugouts rested side by side. The moonlight was almost blinding, and Edgar looked for the rabbit, as he had on many nights since they had passed through the Mediterranean. Now, for the first time, he saw it, running at the side of the moon, as if half in dance, half in a scurried attempt to escape. Below the rabbit, the forest was thick and dark, and the Salween slipped by silently, the sky swimming almost imperceptibly through its currents. The camp was quiet. He had not seen Khin Myo since they arrived. Everyone must have left to sleep, he thought.
The air was cool, almost cold, and he stood for several silent minutes until he caught his breath, and he turned and ducked inside the doorway. He closed the door. There was a small mattress, draped in a mosquito net. The porter had gone. Kicking off his boots, he climbed beneath the netting.
He had forgotten to lock the door. A small gust of wind blew it open. Moonlight danced in on the wings of tiny moths.
The following morning Edgar awoke to the sensation of closeness, a rustling at the mosquito net, hot breath near his cheek, the muffled giggling of children. He opened his eyes to meet a half dozen other whites, irises, pupils, before their little owners shrieked and ran squealing out of the room.
It was light already, and much cooler than in the lowlands. In the night, he had pulled the thin sheet over him, and he was still in his clothes from the journey, still filthy. In his fatigue, he had forgotten to wash. The sheets were soiled with mud. He cursed, and then smiled and shook his head, thinking, It is hard to be angry when one has been wakened by the laughter of children. Points of light shone through the cross-weaves of the bamboo wall, speckling the room. They have brought the stars inside, he thought and climbed out from under the mosquito net. As he walked to the door, the percussion of his footsteps on the wooden floor was echoed by a scurrying outside the door and more squeals. The door still hung open. He poked his head out.
A small head at the end of the landing ducked back behind the corner. More giggling. Smiling, he closed the door and slid a rough bolt of wood through a socket across the door jamb. He peeled off his shirt. Dried, matted pieces of mud flaked off and broke on the floor. He looked for a washbasin, but there was none. Not knowing what to do with the clothes, he folded them roughly and set them by the door. He dressed in fresh clothes, khaki trousers, a light cotton shirt and dark waistcoat. He combed his hair hastily and collected the package he had brought for the Doctor from the War Office.