Saving Fish From Drowning (52 page)

“The worrisome part,” Harry went on, “is that they were led

around by two men—”

“But they were not Burmese,” the reporter cut in, “as we confirmed earlier.”

“Yes, that’s right. The witnesses said they appeared to be Indian or Thai, maybe even Chinese, in any case, definitely not Burmese, because, as you so astutely pointed out, the Burmese witnesses said they couldn’t understand a thing the thugs were saying. But what they did note, interestingly enough, is that they were speaking in gruff tones, and Moff—or rather, the man we think is Mark Moffett—plus the two youngsters, simply obeyed as if they were under the influence of something. The marionette maker and monks said it was a spell cast by Nats, which some Burmese believe are disturbed spirits who are very out of sorts because of a violent death centuries ago.”

“Yes, they are very common here,” the reporter said.

“Well, I believe they might have been drugged,” Harry continued,

“which is a more rational explanation. They were reported to have the glazed look of heroin users—”

The reporter broke in: “Heroin is strictly forbidden in Myanmar.

The penalty for heroin using or selling is death.”

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“Yes, indeed. And none of my friends are of that ilk, absolutely not, I can guarantee that. But that is precisely why we are concerned about the people who were with them, who might have possibly drugged them. Regardless, this sighting represents a huge break for us,
huge
, and that’s where we’re going to focus our efforts over the next few days, in Mandalay, atop the hill, in the pagoda, anywhere our search team feels we should investigate based upon creditable sources of information. Creditable, that’s the key. The government of Myanmar has been extremely helpful in that regard. As soon as I climb down this incredible specimen of Burmese history and architecture, we’re off to Mandalay. In the meantime, if anyone sees anything else of importance, we ask them to call the special Bear Witness Hotline number on the screen.”

Harry beckoned to a woman with two dogs. He vigorously

scratched the neck of the black Labrador until the dog’s back leg started thumping. “That’s my little sausage,” Harry said, and then bent down to the other member of the search team, a border collie.

“Lushy-mush,” he cooed with lips pursed for kissing. Before the dog could slurp him with her slick tongue, Harry deftly pulled back.

“These beauties are better than the FBI,” he gloated. “Search-andrescue dogs, infallible noses, with a work ethic based on a simple reward of fetch. And this gorgeous lady here is their fearless trainer.”

The camera zoomed in on a woman in a perky shift of pink and yellow stretch cotton that clung to her thin, youthful body. “Saskia Hawley. She trained them herself,” said Harry, “and did a top-notch job, if I say so myself.”

“Using techniques you taught me and many thousands of others,”

she added generously, batting her eyelashes comically.

Harry gave his best bashful but charming little-boy smile and then turned to the camera: “That’s all for now. We’ll join you next from Mandalay. What do you say, Saskia? Lush and Topper, are you ready to work? Let’s be going!” The dogs leapt up with tails twirling as fast 3 7 4

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as helicopter rotors. Saskia smiled at Harry, a little too adoringly, Marlena thought. With a soft command from Saskia, the dogs shot forward, sniffing the ground as they led the way.

My friends and the Lord’s Army folk watched as Harry and Saskia strode side by side into a blindingly beautiful sunset. Their figures receded, and the camera panned out and did a slow fade to black, as if all hope had been extinguished.

The news anchor broke in: “For those of you tuning in late, that was a tape sent by TV Myanmar International, with Harry Bailley . . .”

For several seconds, my friends in No Name Place were too

stunned to speak. “I can’t believe it,” Roxanne finally said in a low monotone.

Wendy started to cry, and leaned on Wyatt’s shoulder.

Marlena wondered who that woman was, the one Harry had spoken to with such frank familiarity. Why had he called her “gorgeous”? Why the googly eyes? Was she a fiancée, too? She realized how little she knew about Harry.

Vera sat up straight. “Let’s not be pessimistic. This is good news.

They assume we are still alive, and they’re looking for us. Let’s talk about what this means and what we should do.”

And so they struggled to do as Vera suggested. Late into the night, they discussed the best way to let their potential rescuers know their whereabouts. They also contemplated how to ensure the safety of the tribe. Perhaps the Lajamees could hide in the rainforest, and the eleven could tell their rescuers that they had found this abandoned camp. Or they could simply insist the Lajamees were heroes and should be protected from retribution.

Dwight sprang to his feet. “Well, now that we have a plan,” he said, “I’m going to bushwhack my way out of here. Anyone else want to come along?”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Roxanne said.

Dwight ignored her. “If I can get out of this rainforest to an open 3 7 5

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area where people can see us from above, that would be far better than waiting for God knows how long.”

“Be serious,” Roxanne said.

He did not look at her. The others shrugged, and Dwight strode away in disgust. Roxanne thought, Why did he have to be that way—

and just when the two of them seemed to be getting along?

My friends now switched to a conversation that reflected their new optimism. First thing when she reached home, Marlena said, would be a long, hot bath. Roxanne said she would run the shower for a sinfully long hour to flush out all the grit that had adhered to her skin.

Wendy wanted to get a massage, a haircut, a manicure-pedicure, and buy makeup, underwear, and socks. Bennie was going to buy all new suits because he had lost nearly twenty pounds. The malaria still came back in waves, making it impossible for him to eat much. But what a surprise Timothy would have when he saw Bennie’s trim physique. Heidi wanted to lie in clean sheets. Moff wanted to lie in the clean sheets with her.

They were thinking of the future, the small things, the little luxuries. The big hope was already taken care of. Everybody was looking for them.

E L S E W H E R E I N T H E C A M P , the conversation was more solemn.

Black Spot had recounted to his people what the tourists had seen on television. The man Harry Bailley had started his own television show.

It was not in the jungles of
Darwin’s Fittest
, but here in Burma. He was searching for the Younger White Brother and his followers and had elevated them to TV stars. Black Spot was sure the SLORC soldiers were helping the man to look for them. No one else would be allowed.

An old grandmother lamented, “We might as well jump into the cook pot right now and boil ourselves down to a soup of dead bones.”

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Salt agreed. “They are now bait for the tiger. And we’re the ones who will be eaten.”

“No more talk of soups and tigers,” Black Spot said. “We need to make a plan to escape to another hiding place.”

“The Younger White Brother will protect us when we go,” Black Spot’s wife said.

Some people nodded, but a man with a knee stump countered,

“He’s the one who got us into trouble. And what sign do we have that he is truly the Reincarnated One? The card and the book—perhaps he stole them.”

Other doubters nodded. Soon they were arguing over whether the boy really was the Reincarnated One, the Younger White Brother. A true Younger Brother was supposed to make them stronger, not weaker. He was supposed to make them invisible. “But we are now more visible than ever,” a man complained.

Black Spot shot to his feet. That was the answer! The Younger White Brother had come to make them not invisible but
visible
, seen by the whole world. He recalled for the tribe their wishful dream of having their own TV show. That’s why the Younger White Brother had come with ten people and a moviemaking camera to record their story. They would show the world they were braver and had endured more hardships than those on
Darwin’s Fittest
. Their perils were real. People would want them to survive. Their show would be number one, week after week, number one among wombats and kiwis, Americans and Burmese, too popular to cancel. The path had been placed right before their eyes: all they needed was to have Harry Bailley feature them on his show.

The little twin god Loot stood, removed his smoky cheroot, and extended both arms. His glazed eyes flew upward, and he cried out,

“Let us pray.”

My friends were still riveted to the TV, ready for it to illuminate their faces with further news of themselves and how they were 3 7 7

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doing. Those who were strong alternated in pedaling the bicycle to recharge whichever battery was not in use. Their faces were turned in one direction, and thus occupied, they did not notice Black Spot entering the strangler fig abode where Roxanne and Dwight kept their belongings. They did not see him remove the camcorder from the small backpack and take out the tape, nor did they notice him leave the camp with Grease, Salt, and Fishbones, and race down the path toward the chasm.

Fishbones stood watch for any of the foreigner guests who might be approaching. This was not likely, since it was dark and the friends of the Younger White Brother feared the split in the earth. Grease and Salt looped the rope around the tree-trunk winch and pulled until the bridge was raised high enough for them to grab the lines and fasten them to the tree stumps. Black Spot and Grease scurried across. Salt and Fishbones lowered the bridge. They would wait for their compatriots to return to bring it up again. By then it would be morning.

NO NAME PLACE was now a happy campground for its visitors.

Hooting and laughter were heard at all hours of the day. The Americans danced around the TV set. The tribe sat more quietly on their mats, turning to look at whichever foreigner had his or her face shown on the screen.

My friends were relieved to find that Walter had not perished in the chasm after all. He was in a hospital with amnesia, caused by a bump on the head from a falling rock in the pagoda he was climbing while searching for Rupert. “See what can happen when others go looking for you?” Moff chastised his son. “Others are affected by what you do.”

In the morning, GNN televised a parade that the city of Mayville, North Dakota, had put on to show support for Wyatt’s safe return.

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Children in yellow knitted caps and fat snowsuits rode in sleds pulled by their mothers, who also wore yellow. A trio of men, expelling clouds as they laughed and talked, held a large banner that said:

“Mayville’s 1, 981 Folks Are Praying for Our Native Son.” In the May-Port CG high school auditorium, yet another bake sale was going on, the fourth in the past week, with goods sold by the teachers.

Hotcakes decorated with sugary yellow bows sold like hotcakes, and behind the tables a huge banner read: “American Crystal Sugar Company Wishes Our Best to the Fletcher Family.”

“Brrrr! How cold is it in Mayville today?” the reporter asked one of the teachers.

“I heard it’s six degrees,” said the woman. “Balmy for us!”

In another part of the auditorium, the high school band was playing a passable rendition of “America the Beautiful.” Several women sat behind tables laden with yellow scarves, a sign proclaiming:

“Hand-knitted by the May-Port PTA.”

The reporter was now leading the cameraman to a woman who

claimed she was Wyatt’s girlfriend.

“My what?” Wyatt said.

Wendy leaned forward, her heart racing. So Wyatt had a girlfriend all along. No wonder he seemed emotionally unavailable. “Tell our viewers,” the reporter said, “what Wyatt is like,” and he aimed the microphone at a short woman with frizzy bleached-blond hair. Her face sagged at the jowls, and she had drawn black liner around her eyes, Cleopatra style. “Who the hell is that?” Wyatt muttered. Moff and Dwight were hooting.

The reporter asked the woman to describe what Wyatt was like as a boyfriend. She hesitated, and then said in the deep, grating voice of a longtime smoker, “Hell, he’d do anything for you as a friend, and vice versa.” She looked down and gave a coy smile. “He’s a
real
nice man.”

Jungle whoops went up among Moff, Dwight, and Roxanne. Moff

socked Wyatt on the arm and said, “Way to go.” Wyatt was shaking 3 7 9

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his head. “Who the hell is that? Why is she saying that she’s my girlfriend?”

“Do you have a message for Wyatt right now?” the reporter asked the woman. He again pointed the microphone at her tiny mouth.

“Yeah, sure.” She scrunched up her face and pondered the question. “I guess I’d say, ‘Welcome home, Wyatt, whenever you come home.’” She blew a kiss and waved.

“That is
so
pathetic,” Wendy said, now confident enough to be indignant for Wyatt. “What some people will do to get attention.”

In the update that followed, Moff’s ex-wife was shown sitting on a sofa in her living room, a place Moff had never been. He had always picked up and dropped off his son at the curb in front of Lana’s house. His former wife still bore the appearance of someone in control of her looks, her life, her thoughts. But the interior of the house surprised him. The furnishings were cozy and casual, and not at all as neat and prissy as he had imagined they would be. In fact, the room looked messily lived in, a nice kind of messy, with newspapers strewn on the table, shoes lying about, a box of Kleenex and photo albums stacked haphazardly on the coffee table. It was surprising, considering how rigid she had been about keeping all surfaces absolutely pristine when they were married. She held a framed photo of Rupert and turned it toward the camera. She spoke in a calm and assured voice: “I know he’s okay. His father is very protective. You see, Mark would never,
never
let anything bad happen to our son. He would do
everything
in his power to bring him back to me.” Moff wondered dryly if that was a compliment or an order. But then Lana reached for a tissue, dabbed her eyes, and began to cry. “I’d give anything to have them both back,” she added in a quavering whisper.