Mycroft Holmes (24 page)

* * *

It was nearly dusk by the time they arrived into town again. Nico brayed his hunger, and this time even Holmes’s stern voice could not quiet him.

Douglas and Huan agreed with Nico. The first order of business was to eat. And since both men persistently assured Holmes that the safest place in Port of Spain was the Chinese section, Holmes soon found himself seated at the long wooden table, shoulder to shoulder with his companions, while some fifty men sat hunched all around him, silently drinking and smoking, and brightly colored lanterns shone like multicolored stars overhead.

There were young men standing in the shadows—the oldest seemed barely out of his teens—all wearing
tangzhuang
jackets, the formal garb of Han Chinese. Their hairlines had been shaved back and their long black hair was gathered in
queues
, or braids. They said nothing, but stared impassively before them, like the Queen’s guards.

Holmes did a quick head count. If there were fifty men seated at the table, then there were easily fifty boys, standing sentry here and there.

They seemed formidable.

“Who are they?” Holmes whispered to Douglas.

“They are the reason that this is the safest section of the city.”

Holmes eyed them with a hint of dismay.

“For
whom?”
he quipped.

Douglas smiled.

“Then I am thankful they are on our side,” Holmes added.

His friend shrugged. “Only if it suits them,” he murmured—which was not at all the news that Holmes was hoping to hear.

While he waited with a sour stomach for the food to arrive, Holmes took a sip of the liquid that the hunched little man poured into all the mugs. It tasted like ethanol to which something vaguely sweet had been added. That did not mean that it was bad—it was simply something he was not used to, and did not care to learn to enjoy.

Beyond that, he had a maddening tickle at his throat from the shag tobacco that hung over the table like a blue canopy; while at the same time he could feel his first niggling desire for a nice Cuban cigar.

Unfortunately, he and Douglas had only brought enough provisions to last them through the journey on board, assuming they could replenish their stash once they arrived at Port of Spain.

If you wish to make angels laugh
, Holmes thought,
tell them your plans.

But when the very large bowl of dumplings arrived, he forgot all about Cuban cigars. For in truth, the smell was so aromatic that he felt giddy. He thought he might indulge after all.

His first attempts at transferring the precious little sacs of pork and duck from bowl to mouth proved unsuccessful. As one, two, then three dumplings plopped onto the table or the ground, an almost imperceptible muttering began among his fellow diners.

Douglas—with a quiet elbow to Holmes’s ribs—demonstrated the technique. He held the chopsticks below the surface of the table so that Holmes might mimic his movements without making a spectacle of himself.

There was one more false start—a dumpling rolled off the edge of the table and plopped onto his lap—before he caught on. When dumpling number five finally made it to his mouth, even Holmes in all his sorrow had to admit that he had never tasted anything quite so delectable in his life.

By that time, the long table had grown noisier. Once the eating had begun, so did the talking and the laughter. From what he could tell, they were speaking Mandarin. And although Douglas apparently knew enough words to join in here and there, Holmes was grateful to simply sit and not have to make conversation.

He looked around for the boys in
tangzhuang
, but they seemed to have vanished.

Just as well
, he thought, as they did not exactly bring him comfort.

He let the hunched little man pour him another drink, then a third for good measure. Between healthy sips, he stretched out his arm toward the bowl, and with the long ivory chopsticks hooked one of those beautiful little morsels of meat, bringing it more or less deftly into his mouth.

* * *

Holmes was satiated and a bit drunk when Huan looked past him and casually asked Douglas if he had eaten his fill.

“I have indeed,” Douglas replied, patting his belly.

“Very good,” Huan said with a grin. “Then you are ready.”

All of a sudden, a dozen young men in
tangzhuang
surrounded them.

Holmes could almost smell the approaching fight. As Douglas began to rise, so did he—but Huan placed a firm hand on his shoulder and in no uncertain terms pushed him down again.

He was no longer grinning.

A few more men placed their hands on Holmes’s shoulder to underscore the message. Meanwhile, one of the boys pulled away from the group and bowed to Douglas, who bowed back.

Within seconds the lad was sailing feet first at Douglas’s head.

* * *

The men at the table seemed to rise like a fifty-headed dragon, yelling what sounded like war whoops, cheering on the combatants, or maybe demanding Douglas’s blood—it was impossible to tell which.

Douglas removed his shoes so quickly that Holmes barely saw how, and in a flash had his right foot on the boy’s throat, pinching his gullet with bare toes. Though the boy’s kicks were formidable, Douglas’s long legs kept him safely out of harm’s way.

Even so, his assailant was relentless. Choking and gasping for air, he finally managed to beat, kick, and pry Douglas’s foot from his neck. As the two opponents continued their wild acrobatics, seemingly to the death, the whoops and the yells of the crowd grew. Money began changing hands, and this gave Holmes comfort in a way, as it had to mean that Douglas and the boy were sparring…

Then came a spray of blood from the boy’s nose, as Douglas landed a roundhouse punch… along with a welt rising on Douglas’s face where an elbow connected to his cheekbone.

Sparring or not, the wounds were all too real.

Their wounds from the journey had finally begun to heal, the bruises to discolor acceptably. Now Douglas would have a fresh batch to contend with.

Using his
extensor digitorum longus
, Douglas hooked the boy’s neck from behind. But this time, the boy was ready. Instead of trying to swing at Douglas—an impossible proposition—he simply dropped to the ground onto his back, using his momentum to throw Douglas off balance.

Douglas started to fall squarely into a double punch that the boy had readied. At the last second, however, he catapulted over the boy’s prone body, and landed on his feet behind him. The boy bounced up from his prone position and flipped toward Douglas as if the dirt underneath him contained a springboard.

But he was one blink too late.

Douglas ducked… and as his opponent flew over him, Douglas landed a punch to his gut that expelled the boy’s air all at once and left him on his back, as helpless as a tipped-over scarab.

The crowd cheered wildly.

A gong echoed from somewhere.

Douglas waited a moment until the boy caught his breath again, then he helped him to stand, and the two bowed to each other.

Another moment, and Douglas turned to Huan.

“I would not have recognized him,” he said, breathing hard, “but for that pitted little scar just above his right eye—the bad case of rubella when he was five. We were all quite worried about you,” he added, turning to the boy. “On our knees night and day, praying you would not die. Then again, I had no idea that you would grow up and attempt to murder me.”

Douglas grinned at this last, while the boy smiled bashfully and bowed again.

“He is nineteen now!” Huan announced proudly. “Mycroft Holmes, may I present my son, Little Huan.”

Little Huan, who was taller than his father by a head and a half, turned and bowed to Holmes, who bowed back, trying to not appear as befuddled as he felt.

Then Little Huan turned to Douglas.

“Welcome back, Uncle Cyrus,” he said. “We have missed you.”

“You have grown so much,” Douglas said. Then he swept his hand to include all the boys, who seemed to have materialized around them once again.

“Mycroft Holmes,” Douglas said. “It is my great pleasure to introduce you to the Harmonious Order of Closed Fists.”

The hunched little man handed drinks in ceremonial cups to Douglas and Little Huan, and another round of bows began.

Douglas took a drink, then wiped his mouth. “It is not an easy life for Chinese immigrants in Port of Spain,” he explained. “The Closed Fists perform as a sort of militia to ensure that… things are fair. In commerce, housing, whatever the need might be. They are trained in combat from the time they are very young.”

“So I gathered,” Holmes responded.

“Your skills have remained sharp, my friend,” Huan complimented Douglas.

“I am very glad of that at the moment,” Douglas said with a slight bow.

Holmes raised an eyebrow.

“Any other little secrets you’d like to share?” he asked.

“Don’t much care for the taste of our own medicine, eh?” Douglas countered, grinning.

“It’s a good thing you were already banged up,” Holmes said. “As it is, you don’t look much the worse for wear.”

Douglas laughed, and Holmes joined him.

“In truth,” he told Douglas, “that was a terrifying display.”

Douglas nodded. “There is nothing quite so frightening as to have the human body come at you in some unexpected way. It is not simply the kicks and the jabs that strike fear, but—”

“Yes, I understand,” Holmes interrupted enthusiastically. “It is what stories of gargoyles and monsters count on. The idea of something attacking you that is not upright, that is not facing you eye to eye. Things that crawl, things that fly… it is the odd angles themselves that can be terrifying.”

He glanced around at the strange locale, and tried to pinpoint what he felt.

Though it had indeed been “a terrifying display,” he also felt satiated, as one might feel after a hearty meal. Perhaps it was Douglas’s small victory against a younger, stronger opponent. Perhaps it was the haze of alcohol. Or perhaps it was knowing that “the monsters” he had feared were actually friends, but he finally felt—if not the deep sense of safety that Huan and Douglas had extolled—then certainly a reconciliation with the environment that allowed him to breathe a bit more easily. Something he hadn’t experienced since he’d left his flat in London.

He recalled Mrs. Hudson, calling out from her window.

“
You be careful among the heathens, luv!
”

He wondered what Mrs. Hudson would make of all this.

“We know you have difficulties,” Huan was saying to Douglas, “and we are happy to help you. Whatever you need, you have only to say so.”

“I appreciate that, my friend,” Douglas responded, “but our next destination is my family’s land, and anyone there will already be quite traumatized. I am not certain that the sight of men with partially shaved heads and
tangzhuang
would assuage it.”

“The offer is forever,” Huan said.

Little Huan and the other boys nodded somberly.

Who are these people
, Holmes wondered,
who will so readily sacrifice themselves for others, asking nothing in return?

In his circle, he hadn’t met very many like them.

DOUGLAS
’
S FAMILY HOME WAS LOCATED IN THE SOUTHWEST PART
of the island, just outside of San Fernando. It was a day’s ride by horseback from Port of Spain, as no trains ventured there. They leased twin mares for their journey. Though the horses weren’t particularly fleet of foot, or terribly bright, they did their duty and did not spook easily.

This last was especially useful, as the hand-dug road would often abruptly end, eroded by rain and sea, or buried inside a mangrove swamp.

“Two steps forward, one step back,” Holmes muttered sullenly as they sidestepped another dead end while trying to locate the next piece of road.

“So long as it’s not
two
steps back,” Douglas said evenly.

Holmes frowned. “Must you
always
put the positive light on things?”

“I do it merely to balance you out, Holmes. If not, we would surely have stumbled into a ditch by now.”

Thankfully, Douglas knew the terrain and could always locate some alternate way for proceeding, and soon the sleepy little town came into view.

* * *

Founded some ninety years before, San Fernando had only one throughway, High Street, so baptized because its center was built upon the flanks of two hills. Its sloped appearance made visitors feel disoriented and slightly drunk. Though the buildings had a definite Spanish flavor, most of the inhabitants appeared to be Indian. In fact, Holmes recalled reading that San Fernando had become a hub for Indian immigrants who served as cheap but dutiful beasts of burden for sugar, cocoa, and tobacco growers.

“Spain has laid the foundation, and India has populated it,” Holmes said, glancing about.

“The West Indian Petroleum Company has taken up residence here,” Douglas added in a tone that implied he did not much approve.

“Another employer is surely a good thing,” Holmes suggested. “I assume they are searching for pitch oil?”