The Call of the Thunder Dragon (65 page)

The Webley discharged one shot.
The soldier fell back, shot through the chest, blood spread rapidly
under the body.

Falstaff stood for a long time
with the Webley in his hand shaking. He felt dog tired, with
throbbing pain in too many places. This is why I prefer being a
pilot he told himself. It was less personal and less painful. He
looked around at the mess.

Gore and blood soaked the wooden
floor, Falstaff stared at a rivulet forming as blood draining
between cracks in the wooden floor. Feeling faint, he shook his
head and started to move.

“Bugger, what a pointless waste,
why couldn’t they leave me alone?” Falstaff mumbled.

He dumped himself down on the
doorstep outside. Sitting for a long time, before figuring out how
to get his hands untied. It was dark outside and no one was coming
he realised. He freed his hands on Goemon’s blood stained blade. He
collected his bags together and left the blood behind.

He discarded Goemon’s bloody
katana and the Colonel’s matchless two-hundred-year-old blade. If
you put your soul into a blade how else would you expect to die,
Falstaff reflected?

He trudged downhill stuffing down
the cold rice he had found into his mouth. Stopping at a stream, he
quenched his thirst and washed his face. His eyes started bleeding
again. He rummaged in his bag and pulled out the yellow scarf he’d
worn on Burns night. Reluctantly he used it as a bandage, wrapping
it around his head covering one eye.

He reached his final objective
after an hour’s slow trudge. He was stiff and was beginning to feel
the pain of his bruises.

Wearily he stepped onto the
sandbank and climbed into the Douglas Dolphin. Putting down his
bag, he pulled out his Webley. A machine gun lay propped against
the last seat before the cockpit door. There was another on the
seat beside a pile of grenades. Creeping forward Falstaff sniffed
at the air. It was thick with cigar smoke.

Slowly he edged forward, pushing
the barrel of the revolver around the door frame towards the
pilot’s seat.

“Akira?” Falstaff exclaimed in
surprise.

The injured pilot jerked awake,
dropping the cigar from his hand.

“Oh, it’s you! Falstaff-Sama! I
thought if Haga-Jin came back I’d blow him to hell! Here, take this
before I drop it!” He passed Falstaff a grenade with his left hand
and collapsed deflating with relief into his chair.

Falstaff checked the ring hanging
from the pin, seeing it was all in place he drew a sigh of
relief.

“I took your advice and got out
of fighter command, look what they gave me! Not bad, hmm? Better
than that old laundry mangle you were flying!” Akira slurred,
slumping further into his chair. He was white as a sheet.

“What’s wrong with you? Sit up!”
Falstaff looked over Akira’s face, cut and bruised. His clothes
were wet and there was blood running down his sleeve onto the
deck.

“Shit, you’re in worse shape than
I am? Who did this?”

“Soujiro-San and Haga-Jin’s
hoods! Even my co-pilot turned on me?” Akira said in quiet, hoarse
murmur.

“Why on earth? Damn your arm’s
broken!” Falstaff stepped back aghast.

“I had orders to pull out, go
back to base. They wanted to wait for you instead! Did you get
them?”

“Yeah, I got them good and I’m
beginning to feel better about it now as well!” Falstaff shook his
head in disbelief.

Falstaff and a yellow and
red-gowned monk carried Akira on a blanket stretched between them.
The hardest part was getting him out of the aircraft. Falstaff
admired Akira’s strength, he’d first met him years ago, avid
trainee pilot in Japan, then they met again in Shanghai in ‘37.

Somehow Akira had stopped himself
from losing consciousness and crawled back into the aircraft having
drifted past it, taken by the currents of the river. He crawled up
to the hatch and inside. Unpacked the grenades ready to ambush his
former commander.

The old monk had bound Akira’s
arm to stop the bleeding, but the protruding bone still needed
resetting. They set him down on the flat ground. Falstaff had tried
to help, but the pain and emotion were welling up after his own
beating. The sight of Akira’s bloody wrist bone was too much.

“Sit down or you’ll fail!”
Snapped the monk, trying to pull Akira’s arm straight to set the
bone.

“Sorry,” Falstaff said
meekly.

“Get me a splint, some wood?
Something straight or we can’t stop the blood?” The Monk demanded,
“Quickly!”

Akira was moaning faintly, the
pain reaching his unconscious mind.

Falstaff looked around for
branches and dismissed the idea, then returned to the Dolphin. He
came back with the ship’s first aid box and a paratrooper’s rifle.
Sitting on the grass, he fumbled with his bruised and swollen
fingers to dismantle the gun.

As a paratroopers weapon, it
dismantled in two stages; firstly the butt and first half of the
stock, with the trigger mechanism and magazine feed came away
entirely from the barrel and the rest of the stock. The feature
allowed the rifle to be stored in his way during parachute
jumps.

Falstaff threw away the working
half of the gun and concentrated on the barrel. It slid free after
removing the metals bands securing it to the stock. Falstaff handed
the barrel to the monk.

The old monk nodded in thanks.
The grey stubble on his naked scalp glinted in the dusk.

“That is good!” He grinned. “You
help this man, by dissecting his weapon.”

Falstaff bowed his head in
thanks. “He is my friend, a good friend even though he is Japanese
like those others,”

“You killed them?” Asked the monk
as he bound one end of the barrel to the broken wrist.

“Yes. Japanese soldiers,
fanatics, live by a set of rules I only half understand. I’m just a
good shot that’s all.”

“Their hatred of you was evident
in their words. Their leader would not speak your name without
putting his hand on his sword. He said you were a criminal, is this
not true? And I saw you carried the same type of sword he did?”

“It wasn’t my sword. It belonged
to another Japanese soldier. He surrendered it to me. Did you know
that the Japanese consider their katana their souls?”

The monk nodded. He worked
tightening the bandages, concentrating on the bone under his
fingers.

“Their souls, yes I knew that.
That is why I was doubly afraid. The bloodlust of their leader, his
hand on his sword, then the other sword, yours... its blade so
marked with its deadly use, yet so clean and polished.”

“His name was Goemon. He
surrendered the sword to me. Then he went to join a monastery in
Guwahati. He was about the most honest Japanese I’ve met, besides
Akira here.”

“It was not a coincidence you
kept the blade is it?” The monk said. “Why didn’t you throw it
away?”

“No, I couldn’t do that. It was a
marvellous weapon!”

“Did you use it?”

“Yes, I suppose it saved my life.
I’ve Goemon to thank for that... I think.”

“You have discarded it now?”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

“I left Goemon’s sword because it
was just a sword, nothing else. This whole business is over... I
hope. I don’t need a sword. Let alone one to put my soul in.”

“I see...” The monk said with a
smile. “Forgive my questions. You have put my mind at ease.”

“I have?” Falstaff shrugged. He
was too tired to think clearly, he rambled on. “There’s more isn’t
there? I mean years ago I met Akira in Shanghai, persuaded Akira to
get out of combat flying in the end he did and ended up here!”

“All of it is
karma
⁷¹
, that is why my
mind is at ease. Shall we finish this splint.”

They had to work together,
Falstaff holding the barrel until it was fixed to Akira’s arm, the
monk feeling the bones, squeezing tightly with probing his fingers
to set the bone in the right place.

Falstaff was gritting his teeth,
not in pain or the sight of Akira’s broken bones, but out of sudden
fear. Calmly, serenely the monk worked without a fuss. Falstaff
felt he had been no more help to the kindly monk than a swooning
student nurse.

Somehow Falstaff found the
strength to pick Akira up in the blanket again, they carried him
towards the fort. Falstaff at one end the monk at the other leading
the way. As they approached the fort, help came. Luckily they had
been spotted in the gloom, another, young dome-headed monk came to
take Falstaff’s place and yet another to relieve the load of the
first.

Inside the fort, Akira was taken
for treatment. Lang was bellowing and shouting that his guests
should be attended to and doctor’s sent for.

“Falstaff’s alive!” He boomed
with joy at the news.

Falstaff’s back and arms were
bruised black and blue. He lay still while minor cuts were cleaned,
wincing at the sharp pain and groaning at the dull ache.

He thought of Zam and what had
become of her?

The young monk silently worked
with great care, cleaning and binding his wounds. Taking the yellow
scarf from his eye, another bandage was cut and prepared to replace
it while the old monk sat over Falstaff, stitching his eyelid.

Falstaff woke the next morning,
encouraged out of his deep sleep by Lang himself, who was dressed
for a bath. After the Bath and Breakfast came a back rub; with an
oil the old monk told him, was made with a poison from a small
tree
⁷²
.

“A poison?” Falstaff gasped,
wincing in pain.

“Yes, soon you will not feel
pain. Your muscles will be numb. It is used for muscle pain,
bruises, women’s troubles, worms, snake bites, stomach pain and to
keep insects away.” The monk said. “Now I must wash my hands!”

“Sounds lovely!” Said Falstaff
ironically. “Bet it tastes horrible!”

“No, no, it is nice! You ate all
your rice porridge this morning didn’t you?” The smiled and left
Falstaff laid out on the floor.

He lay there a moment thinking of
his stomach and wondering at the numbness spreading into his back
muscles.

“Damn!” He sat up, rubbing his
stomach. “I hope I don’t get women’s troubles!”

After resting another hour
finally, Falstaff had had enough of brooding. Lang had barely
spoken to him and there was no sign of Zam anywhere.

He expected her to appear,
refreshed, her long hair neatly platted in pigtails, full of
lunatic utterances gleaned from Milly-Molly-Mandy, or full of
tongue-in-cheek references to rabbits.

He tried to take his mind off
rabbits and tigers.

“Where is Bunny, I mean Zam?” He
asked the old monk. “Oh, and thanks for coming back for me and for
the help you gave my friend.”

“You ask about the lady Karma
Zam, before your sick friend? You must love her?” He said
matter-of-factly. “Your friend is well. He will be awake soon.”

Falstaff nodded. “Why did you
send me to the Japanese in the first place? I could have been
killed?”

“The Japanese told us much about
you. You confirmed much of the details yourself. You are as they
said an ‘outlaw’ and have done them wrong.”

Falstaff sighed. “I’d agree
that’s how it might have looked. I am wanted as a criminal in parts
of China if it is a crime to fight against an invader who murders
children, abuses and rapes women and destroys their homes with
bombs!”

The monk blinked and didn’t
answer for a moment. “I think you talk about justice? But does
justice require that you become what they are? The sword you
explained last night. Can you explain why you are fighting the
Japanese?”

The monk looked into his eyes.
“You might not understand, but confession might help, Shakyamuni
gave teachings to all his followers on the power of
confession.”

Falstaff sat up straight and
reached for his vest and shirt; taking a deep breath he spoke
again.

“Up the hill, back in the hall
yesterday, I lied to the Japanese. I told them I killed Goemon.
They beat me and demanded I tell them the truth; if I had, they
would have gone after him next.”

“You took Goemon’s sword and
killed the officer. In a way, you exorcised the man...” The monk
smiled showing his teeth. “You were prepared to die for him? He who
had chosen not to fight you?”

“Oh, not really,” Falstaff said
out loud without a pause. “Just winging it…”

“Do not judge Lang Druk, he has a
responsibility to the law and authorities. You have faced your
accusers and you have survived. That is good and you have also
saved your friends.”

Falstaff felt an empty pit in his
stomach. He’d expected a lecture on murder and the value of life
from the monk.

“I killed them all you know?”

“Yes, it is the end of the
journey for you. To continue it through to punishment would be to
continue the bad karma. I’m not going to ask you to theorise on the
justifications, neither do I want to myself! Maybe this young
student can help?”

The old monk got up to leave,
bowing to the younger bald-headed monk. The younger monk was
dressed in white and orange loose robes. The young one sat down and
took a deep breath, then recalled to Falstaff.

“He who deserves punishment must
be punished. And he who is worthy of favour must be favoured. Do
not do injury to any living being but be just... Be filled with
love and kindness.” The monk paused and looked at Falstaff as he
listened, watching the flames in the fireplace.

“These instructions are not
contradictory because the person who is punished for his crimes
will suffer his injury not through the ill-will of the judge but
through the evil of the act itself? Are you evil?”

Falstaff blew out his breath.
“No, I don’t think so?”