The Tapestries (11 page)

“And neither have I any cause to accept your word,” replied the captain. “I can only hope that you will spare the lives of the people I just mentioned once I leave this world. After all, one must grant a dying wish, regardless of the conditions.”

“All right,” conceded the old man. “I will honor this agreement.”

“In that case, send your men outside. I must disclose this information in confidence.”

Once again, Magistrate Toan turned to his son. “Get your men to untie the prisoners and take them outside the gates,” he said. “Make sure that no one else is in this garden, except for the captain, his mistresses, and me.”

Master Long made an effort to hide his disappointment. “Must I, too, go outside, Father?”

“Indeed, you must stand guard over the prisoners.”

Master Long instructed the soldiers to carry out his father's command. The fishermen were released from their posts. The shackles were once again passed through their swollen palms, and the chain was threaded through to connect them. The granite gate was reopened. As they passed by their captain, the sailors bade him farewell, saluting him with titles of respect. They then returned to the road.

Magistrate Toan turned to Master Nguyen, who wore a look of pride.

“Tell me the location of the map,” the magistrate demanded. “As you can see, I intend to keep my promise to you.”

“Thank you,” Tat Nguyen replied. “Half of the map was tattooed on my back. You can check it if you wish.”

Magistrate Toan studied his opponent. Slowly he strolled a half-circle around the bound prisoner, so that he could look at him from behind. With the swiftness of a hawk, he tore open Master Nguyen's tunic. In the bright sunlight the map appeared before the old man, covering a large portion of the captain's upper body with a detailed landscape and an inscription in the old vernacular. The magistrate leaned closer and read out loud: “The priests make charms out of nature by aligning the constellations, the sun, and the moon.” He scratched his chin and asked, “What does that mean?”

Master Nguyen replied, “It is a favorite verse of mine, written by Taoist monks in China during the early seventh century. It means just what it says, nothing more. The map will lead you to the treasure.”

In the mango tree, Ven repeated the verse softly as if it were a mantra.

Toan narrowed his eyes. “For the lives of your son and your crew, tell me where the treasure is. I have no patience for riddles.”

The captain smiled. “If I could remember where I hid my riches, I would not have bothered to record their location in a tattoo. Besides, searching for it will be an exciting adventure for an old fox like you. Have I gained your trust now, Magistrate Toan?”

“Where is the other half of the map?”

“Before I answer that question, allow me one more inquiry, just to help clear my mind.”

“By the Heavens, what is it?” cried the old man in exasperation.

“Why are you destroying my peaceful home? Could it simply be vengeance? I do not remember ever offending you.”

“No, you haven't,” replied the magistrate. “There is no reason, except for—”

“Except for?”

“There cannot be two suns in the sky nor two kings in one country. You and I cannot exist together in this town. I must destroy you before your strength and power outshine mine. This opportunity could not have come at a better time.”

“Your words ring of truth,” said Master Nguyen. “Thank you for your honesty.”

“Now, tell me where the other half of the map is.”

The captain said, “It is tattooed on my son's back. Once you find him, you can copy the map if you wish, but you must spare his life as we have agreed.”

Upon hearing these words, Dan jumped with fright inside his basket. Behind him, Ven made a surprised sound from the back of her throat. She should well be familiar with his body by now. Nevertheless, Dan felt his wife's hands creeping up along his torso. She lifted the thin fabric of his shirt. Soft wind walked its fingers along the small of his back, where the skin was as white as ivory. Dan could not remember getting any tattoo, nor could he comprehend why his father had lied to the old magistrate. His wife, however, understood. She squeezed his little body in her strapping hands.

“Prepare for the deaths of the condemned Tat Nguyen and his family,” Magistrate Toan announced.

S
ai, the same soldier who had handed the beverage to Master Long, now returned to the garden. In his hands he held a small tray containing a dry lump of red ink and a large Chinese brush made from sable fur. Some of the ink had been ground and mixed with water inside a clay bowl to form a viscous paste. Standing before the magistrate, he raised the tray to his brows.

The old man picked up the brush and dipped it in the thick ink. When he drew it closer to Master Nguyen's face, the tip of the instrument dribbled red liquid onto the white sand. Carrying out the executioner's ritual, Magistrate Toan drew a line around the prisoner's neck, marking the place where the cut would be made. From the gates, the sound of a tambour lifted, hollow and rushing like the galloping of wild horses. The magistrate made the same marks on the necks of First and Second Mistress. They wailed as they felt the brush on their skin.

Another soldier appeared. With his palms open, he handed Magistrate Toan a scimitar. The sharp edge of its curved blade reflected the sunlight, gleaming like a crescent mirror.

Ven knew what was going to happen next. She wrapped her hand around Dan's mouth, silencing him before he had a chance to scream. Thirty feet below them, Magistrate Toan picked up his weapon with two hands. Dan shrank back and closed his eyes tightly, trying to escape the dreadful scene. When he reopened them, his father's head was flying in the air like a shuttlecock. It landed with a soft thud on the ground underneath his basket.

Dan's gaze was riveted on the decapitated head, which lay facing the sky. His father's eyes, still wet with his spirit, seemed to look straight at him, recognizing who he was. A faint smile passed over his bloody face. And then, as though the fire inside him was extinguished, his features grew dull.

Warm fluid spontaneously squirted down Dan's legs. He had lost control of his bladder. Ven loomed above him with her arms tight around him. Magistrate Toan was erect and triumphant. He inhaled deeply as though he were absorbing the spirit of his enemy, then turned to face the two bound women with his weapon.

Beneath the mango tree, the swatch of green grass slowly took on a bright shade of crimson.

chapter seven

Two Silver Dollars

A
t the first sight of blood spurting from Master Nguyen's neck, Ven collapsed against the tree, A half-fainting. The stricken look Dan gave her reminded her of her duty. She would not allow the scene beneath the mango's branches to steal her will to fight. Anger seized her throat, and she fought the urge to scream, shake her fists at the Heavens above, or confront the enemies below. For the sake of her young husband, she concentrated on formulating a plan to save both of their lives.

From the ground rose the acrid smell of spilled blood, like the stench of a slaughterhouse. Magistrate Toan puffed out his chest. In his hand he still held the sharp scimitar. Kneeling, he wiped the blood off its blade by stabbing it repeatedly into the soil. A soldier approached the bamboo posts, where the corpses dangled like marionettes whose strings had been cut. Before each grave site, he placed a small wooden board inscribed with the death sentence.

Ven glanced at her husband. Never before had she seen a child weep in such total silence. Above them, the indifferent sun scorched the earth with rays strong enough to wilt the mango's leaves. Another soldier moved down the walkway, carrying three round plates the size of Ven's hat and made of woven rye straw. He grimaced when he came to the severed heads of Master Nguyen and his two wives. Using his thumb and forefinger, he lifted them by the hair and placed one on each tray. As Ven looked down into the dull, bloodstained face of Master Nguyen, she felt a wave of nausea and she, too, broke into silent tears.

Magistrate Toan moved among the bodies, using his sword to cut the ropes that tied them to the poles. Deliberately, the old man spat on the gore-encrusted torsos, aiming at the raw flesh of the necks, where the ruptured arteries could be seen. The soldiers pushed the corpses belly-down into the open graves. No sticks of incense eased the passage of their spirits. Their expensive clothes were torn, and their claylike bodies showed through the tatters. Under the old man's direction, a guard flayed the skin that bore the tattooed map from Master Nguyen's back. Only then did the magistrate allow his men to complete the burial.

Once the last shovel of dirt fell upon the graves, the troops left the garden, taking the victims' heads with them. Ven followed Magistrate Toan with her eyes and saw him climb into the dark sedan, where Master Long waited. Almost as an afterthought, Magistrate Toan opened his window and ordered his men to place his enemies' heads at the entrance of the house. Soon the three trays hung from the branch of a fir tree under the hot sun, a cautionary example for the villagers.

Ven watched the car roll down the pebbled road, trailed by the team of soldiers on foot and by the truck bearing the remaining prisoners. She lost sight of them, and once again the garden was immersed in loneliness.

T
hat night they hid in a clearing behind the single remaining wall of the kitchen. Ven lay on her back, studying the dark sky. The waning moon did not rise until the time-teller's third round. Dan cuddled against the fold of her arm, sleeping. Ven watched him, and the signs of his ordeal broke her heart. After their weeks as beggars, his once-round body was now angular and bony, as small as a bird's. Ven held his hand in her rough fingers, pressing it against her nose. In the impenetrable stillness she inhaled his faint, childlike warmth.

Her head throbbed as though a handful of rocks were forming under the flat surface of her brow. They rolled restlessly from one side to the other each time she tilted her head. Ven gritted her teeth and pounded her temples with her fists, moaning. She had been out in the sun for too long in the past few days, she thought. Overcome with exhaustion, she drifted into a restless sleep.

W
hen Ven woke up, the sun was rising in a cloudless sky. Dan sat with his back to her in the shade of the brick wall. He had found a bunch of taro in the ashes of the kitchen garden, and he was picking out the tiniest bulbs from the tangle of roots, popping them unpeeled into his mouth, and crunching them. In a pile near his feet were the larger corms, which contained a bit more nutrition.

Ven remained on the ground, unable to move. A fever spread through her body like fire. She was desperate for a drink, but her withered tongue was unable to form the words to ask for one. She concentrated on her husband's back, making a slight rustling noise with her hands in the parched grass to get his attention. At last she managed a single hoarse word.

“Please!”

Dan turned around.

“Water,” she whispered.

Dan regarded her as though she were a stranger. Then he got up and disappeared from her view. Returning with a clay bowl of water, he stooped and held the cloudy liquid to her lips. She drank a little, clutching her head to prevent her brain from bursting.

“Come, Ven,” the boy said. A look of worry showed through the dirt that covered his face. “Have some taro roots with me. I don't know how to cook them, but I have saved the biggest pieces for you.”

The water replenished her strength, yet the awful pain persisted. Until now, she had never thought about herself. She bit her lower lip and said nothing while her mind churned. She had no money. The last copper pennies were gone long ago. But her poverty was not the issue, for she did not even feel strong enough to walk to the town and fetch a doctor.

Ven got to her feet with effort. The hammering in her head grew worse. Leaning on her husband, she took baby steps toward the garden. She remembered the purple
Ricinus
leaves that used to grow along the back fence. Every farmer knew this wild herb got rid of a headache faster than any bottled medicine. Gratefully, she found the plant had survived the conflagration. She laid its fronds against her forehead and held them in place with a turban of black cloth. Exhausted, she returned to the kitchen and collapsed into the shadow of the wall, where she sat as immobile as an earthen jar.

Under her direction, Dan smashed a knuckle of gingerroot into the juice of a lemon that he had found on the burned ground nearby. Ven straightened to unhook her clothes. With his palm the boy smeared the ginger-lemon paste over her body. Its heat suffused her skin in waves. As she drifted in thought, her husband's prayer echoed in her ears. “Dear gods, please save my Ven.”

She woke sometime in the afternoon, feverish, bathed in perspiration. The headache, far from dissipating in her sleep as she had hoped, had gotten worse. Her breath rasped, and her limbs shook with a palsy.

Dan sat some twenty paces away and watched Ven. Her quivering body and the unusual heat that emanated from her filled him with dread. When she looked at him, her narrow eyes held none of the tenderness he yearned for.

“I cannot take care of you any longer, young Master,” she said.

“No, do not say that,” Dan cried. He sprang to her side and touched her face with affection. “Eat some food,” he said. “You will feel better soon.”

She shook her head. When she spoke, her voice was like the wind. “I have thought of nothing but you in my sleep, and now I have come to a conclusion. This is not a simple decision for me to make, nor will it be easy for you to accept. Trust me, poor child, I know your anguish. Fate has inflicted a great misfortune upon you, and your life has not been of sufficient length to bear yet another. Oh, Dan, if only I could, I would not hesitate to cut the flesh from my body to feed you.

“My strength is fleeting. I am seized with a terrible illness, and I cannot be sure how much worse it may grow. It is called malaria, and I have had it before. Perhaps this time it will overcome me. But before Death turns me cold, I must find a way for you to survive.” She paused, catching her breath.