The Tapestries (21 page)

She closed her eyes. Her mind opened into a world that was filled with nothing but gray sky. The captain's voice rasped above her, like the relentless wind: “Another drifter on the way to town. Sooner or later, we'll find that runaway slave…”

Someone grabbed a handful of her hair. Ven struggled to her feet as she felt herself being dragged down the road.

O
utside the community hall, an ancient banyan tree threw its shadow across the ground. The rich colors of harvest goods brightened the marketplace, an impressive testament to a successful farming season. Soybeans lay in mounds on the rectangular veranda, waiting to be divided among the landowners. Near the front entrance of the hall, ears of corn were strung high from one tree to another, drying in the sun. Beneath them, the massive courtyard was full of vehicles of all kinds—carts, wagons, horse-drawn carriages, and a dark sedan caked in brown mud.

In back of the redbrick hall, a dismal scene was on display. A desultory herd of oxen and cows chomped the few strands of limp grass that clung to the hard-baked soil under the dying sun, while their owners—hapless peasants arrested for curfew violations—sprawled silently inside. Above them, beyond the tall foliage, strong winds pulled forward masses of dark clouds. A storm was moving in.

In the great hall, the harvest moon banquet was winding to an end. Upon a dais that was furnished with a thick, soft carpet—the highest and most honored seat in the house—Master Long, his elderly father, and the guest of honor, Minister Chin Tang, sat cross-legged, sharing a pipe of opium and a burning oil lamp. Long's mouth drooped to the side, and from his throat escaped a damp snore, like the gurgling of a kettle.

To his right sprawled the old magistrate, draped in a formal outfit—a dark-blue silk tunic and a headdress of similar color. He was clutching a half-eaten cow's shank in his misshapen fingers. His lavender lips stretched almost to his earlobes as he tried to gnaw the meat off its bone.

The minister of religion was clothed in the fine satin of the Imperial City's official uniform, with its outer tunic of glossy purple-blue. A gloomy look shaded his face. Before him was a lacquered bowl heaped with grilled chicken, beef stew in curry sauce, and fried shrimp wrapped in rice papers, all of which appeared to be untasted.

Underneath the platform crouched a pack of dogs. Watching the bone in the magistrate's fingers, the animals panted and salivated, occasionally biting one another's ankles in frustration.

A few feet away from the dogs, a cluster of less important residents—the Cam Le Village authorities and senior citizens—sat around a tatami mat covered with dirty dishes, fish bones, and empty lobster shells. A black pipe, shiny from the addicts' greasy handprints, was being passed from one person to another. The droning sound of air churning atop the lantern was as steady as the buzzing of flies over the leftovers. Some of the men were waiting for their turn to partake of the pipe, while others leaned back and held the opium smoke in their lungs with mouthfuls of hot tea, served to them by orderlies.

Ven huddled in the far corner of the hall, lost among a crowd of a dozen bound prisoners. The smell of the stale food, mixed with the peasants' strong odor, numbed her mind. Her arms remained roped behind her back. The knot was so tight that she could no longer feel her fingers, except to sense that they had swollen like ten gigantic bamboo sprouts. Now and then a gust of wind rushed through the great door, and she shuddered.

Not far from her was a pack of scavengers—homeless, addicts, and orderlies—the dregs of Cam Le society who came to the banquet for leftover food and opium. Among them was the time-teller. He sat on the ground with his legs wide apart. Working with silent intensity, he scraped the burnt residue from the opening of a pipe with a crooked spoon. His face was flushed from the smoke he had inhaled; even his scars, normally grayish and distended, were now pink and oily with sweat.

Ven shifted her buttocks, searching for a more comfortable position. Her mind was awake, but her limbs felt as if they were trapped under heavy blocks of concrete. She straightened her cramped legs, and as she did so she knocked over a stack of dirty dishes someone had laid close by. Their loud crashing noise carried above the shrill clamor of the hall.

The sound woke Master Long. His eyes, clouded and bloodshot, turned in her direction. Soon the sharpness returned to them, accompanied by a sudden anger. He pounded his fist on the copper food tray, sending a vigorous vibration through the surrounding tableware. The room became silent.

“Who—?” His scream echoed through the hall, sounding like a long lowing of a cow. He staggered to stand up, but as one of his toes caught the hem of his tunic, he fell back.

The silence continued until Master Long's voice again rose. “Who broke the dishes?” He searched the hall until his eyes rested on the time-teller. “Big Con, my favorite lackey,” he said. “You are sitting near the peasants. Surely you must know who that clumsy brute is. Lean over and give him a slap in the face for me.”

The time-teller looked up. He licked a corner of his mouth, and Ven shuddered at the sight of his black, furry tongue. Everything about the man frightened her. He threw her a look that reminded her of the emptiness of a well. She sat frozen, watching him until he lowered his eyes and resumed his scraping.

Master Long's voice barked again, more impatiently this time. “Raise yourself, time-teller, and hit that miserable fool who broke the town's dishes. Teach him a lesson, Big Con. You must show us your strength, which we have already paid for with the free supper and rice wine.”

The time-teller pushed himself to his feet. As he relaxed his fingers, the spoon slipped from his hand, making a hollow clatter when it hit the stone floor. Ven watched him move closer until his body filled her vision. She lifted her head, closed her eyes, and waited.

Then she heard his voice again for the first time after many years, as though he were speaking directly to her. “I will not hit her.” His speech rasped, as if rusty from disuse.

“Why not, you weak-minded coward?”

She heard the movement of his body, and then the vast shadow receded. “I am not drunk enough to strike a bound woman,” he said.

The guests exploded into savage laughter, mocking the time-teller's weakness with their guffaws.

“Shut your mouths, now. All of you, be silent!” shouted a reedy voice from the center of the dais.

Ven opened her eyes. Minister Chin Tang, with his chest pushed forward and hands folded into fists, stood on top of the platform. His small eyes bore a resemblance to those of the young lord her husband was holding prisoner at the ruined mansion. However, on this man's face, those eyes gleamed with authority.

“Say not a word about being prudent,” said the minister in his purest accent. “Why should all of you bother with a lowly beggar when you are supposed to be searching for my son? I have exhausted my patience sitting here all morning and part of the afternoon, waiting for news about his return, while all you could do was eat, drink, smoke, ridicule, and judge things that do not concern you. If the mayor of this town is not disturbed by my son's absence, then let me summon my three sailors, who are waiting by the dock, and conduct my own search. I will not sit here, safe from harm, while my son's life may be in danger. Gentlemen, I bid you farewell. Enjoy your feast and do not expect any kindness in my annual report to the king's councilmen about your town.”

The old magistrate leaned on his son's shoulder, struggling to stand up. Not until his eyes were at the same level with those of the irate minister did he speak. “Sir Chin,” he said, “I assure you, your son is not forsaken. Right this instant a search is being conducted. My men are combing this village section by section, gathering every clue that might lead to his whereabouts. So far, no one has claimed to have seen or talked to him. Unless the young master left Cam Le this morning, sooner or later we will indeed find him. For the time being, I beg for more of your patience. What good would it do if you stir up a crisis among these ignorant villagers? Allow us, your true allies, to express our faithful friendship and service for a few more hours.”

“You will never find him,” Ven shouted. “I am the only soul in this place that knows where the young lord is.”

The silence in the hall was deafening. Outside, the autumn earth seemed to smoke. Rain was coming. She shrank back to the floor, shutting her eyes. The old magistrate sat up. When she looked up again, her eyes locked glances with him.

“Who are you?” the minister asked, jumping down to the ground.

Ven's mind was flooded with panic.
What are you doing, Ven? You have taken one step too far on this road; there is no turning back now, except to face the consequences.
This might be the only way she could save Dan.

“Where is my son? Do you want to tell me where he is or should I beat the information out of you?” the minister cried as he rushed toward her, his robes rustling through the long room.

Ven felt him seize her shoulders. “No, no torture,” she gasped. “It would not do you any good. I will not tell you under any circumstances, unless you give me your sacred promise that you will listen to my story and protect my family from all harm and grievance. Only you, as the king's minister, could provide a just ending to the harrowing tale that I am about to reveal to you. Your son is safe. It is us, the lowly slaves and beggars, who are in great danger.”

Hearing her words, Magistrate Toan resumed his former position, half-sitting, half-lying on the carpet. But now his every muscle was taut, alert. Next to him, his son roused from his drowsy state.

“I swear to you my promise, deeply and sincerely,” the minister said. “Tell me where to find my son, and I will recompense you to the best of my efforts. You speak as though you are a victim of great injustice, and from what I have seen in this town, I have reason to trust you. Just begin by telling me who you are. How can a lowly beggar speak so eloquently, even more so than many educated men in this place?”

The sincerity in his demeanor persuaded her to trust him. “I was the daughter of a poet,” she said. “My father passed away when I was a young girl. Even though I did not have an opportunity to learn the proper vernacular language, I grew up among poets and writers and acquired a different type of education—the ability to express myself through speech. I confess, poverty was the main reason for my grandparents to send me to this town nine years ago, a slave-bride to the rich house of Master Nguyen. There in his cursed mansion, I witnessed a massacre.” She jumped up from her sitting position, feeling warm tears on her cheeks. Looking at the old magistrate, she screamed to him, “Toan, do you know who I am? Can you guess it now, or do you want me to tell you my name?”

The old magistrate's hands were clutching at his tunic. He was as menacing as ever, and his looks were as scathing now as they had been nine years ago. He assumed a knowing smile and interrupted her with a shout.

“Sir Chin, I know exactly where your son is. Let us take you there this instant. Do not listen to that woman. She is a criminal who has, unfortunately, escaped the court's justice for several years. Guards, seize her at once.”

The minister raised his hand. “Do not move. You can see for yourself that she is already immobile. I will not let you shut her up.” He turned and said to her, more kindly this time, “Take me there now. We will use a carriage, and you can tell me every page of your life on the way. I promise that as long as you present me with the truth, I will keep you safe from your enemies.”

She felt his hand reach into the cradle of her bound arm, and then her whole body was being lifted. The crowd parted, and she saw Master Long hurrying toward them. His jet-black hair fell over his glasses. His face wore the expression of one who has just encountered a ghost.

“All of you, go home,” he said, addressing the hall. “Curfew is in effect from this moment on.” To the minister, he said, “I am coming with you. My father will join us later, after he finishes taking care of certain business.”

“That will not be necessary, Sir Long,” Minister Chin said. “Follow us if you must, but I need to have some time alone with the prisoner. I am borrowing one of your carriages.”

Master Long bowed and murmured, “As you wish, sir.”

Ven stopped listening to his voice, stopped looking at his pale swollen face. Walking slowly, she let herself be guided out of the great hall and into the courtyard. The rain was here at last. Its singing echoed in the air and piped in the bushes, like sparrows chirping. The warm caress of the raindrops seemed to wash her anxiety away. The minister was next to her. She had nothing to be afraid of, now that she was under his protection.

Ven held her head high as the minister led her to a black-lacquered carriage and helped her into its richly cushioned interior. Its springs sagged as a coachman sprang to the driver's seat. Beneath her, she could feel its wheels begin to roll.

“Where is my son?” the minister asked her.

In a firm voice, she directed the coachman to take the main road and head east toward the haunted mansion.

chapter thirteen

The Heart of a Butterfly

F
or Dan Nguyen, the sight of the dark sedan coming down the long, straight road late that afternoon reignited all the disturbing sensations he remembered so well from his childhood: hiding in the mango tree, feeling the wind brush his body, and watching his father's head fly through space. On the highest mound of dirt, he stood alone, holding his knapsack as the rain soaked through his thin clothes like a waterfall. The roar of the car's engine—deep, sustained, and unyielding—vibrated in his ears over the hiss of the downpour. The vehicle's squat metallic form crawled along the muddy route like a giant dung beetle.

The prisoner behind him screamed. He, too, had seen the intruders.

Dan's blood drained from his face. His enemies were here at last, looking for him and the young lord. He rushed back to the weeping willow tree, where his prisoner was bound, writhing as if he were on fire. Dan took off his shirt and swung his knapsack over his bare shoulders. Once his hands were free, he gagged the prisoner, using his torn shirt.