The Forbidden Orchid

by Sharon Biggs Waller

  I wanted to run and keep running, through the forest and up the mountain, past every orchid there ever was, wade through the streams until I reached the very tip of the far mountain, because it was probably the only place on earth this horrible thing, this opium, had never been. But instead of running I returned to the inn, having no idea of what to do. How to help anyone.

  I saw my father coming from across the yard from the direction of the animal enclosure, and anger rose inside of me. From the way he was walking I could tell he was angry, too. He kicked at the ground as he strode, muttering under his breath and whacking his hat against his leg.

  “Good morning, Papa,” I called out. “May I speak a word?”

  “Nothing good about it,” he replied. “Those soldiers have decamped, thank goodness, but they took one of our mules with them!” He stood, looking around, his jaw working, hands clenching and unclenching. “Where is Alex?”

  “I’m here, sir,” Alex called from the door.

  “What’s the matter with you? You don’t look the thing at all. You’re not ailing, are you? That’s the last thing we need.”

  Alex didn’t look at me, didn’t even glance in my direction. “I’m quite well, thank you. Only a bit tired. I’ll be ready in a moment, and then we’ll see what we can do to make up for the missing mules.” He disappeared into the inn.

  Papa, looking very much like a bull about to charge, made a noise under his breath. “Well then, we’ll have to carry on. These things happen, and we have to make the best of it.”

  My anger grew. Papa would have had to walk right by Alex this morning when he’d left the inn. He had to have seen him lying there amongst the other opium users.

  “You know why Alex looks like he does,” I said. “You must have seen him amongst the opium users. You know he’s not ill.”

  Papa thumped his hat against his leg for a moment. “Speak plain, Elodie. I don’t have time for this. Are you claiming that your husband is an opium sot?”

  “Are you smuggling opium? Is that plain enough?”

  “Smuggling?” Realization dawned on his face. “So Howell got to you, then?”

  “Is it true?”

  “Yes.” He didn’t even try to deny it, or explain himself. He didn’t care. I felt my heart shatter into a million pieces. Violetta had already known what I refused to believe. My father was not what I thought he was. He was a blaggard and a criminal, and everything he gave us was tainted by his terrible deeds. Even Alex.

  “You must have recognized this as an opium den. You should have fashioned a noose and placed it around Alex’s neck, it would have been kinder!”

  “Now wait a minute. I didn’t know this was an opium den until late in the night when it was too late to leave. I had no idea Alex was an opium sot. I didn’t shove the pipe in Alex’s mouth and light it. He did that all on his own. Not I.”

  “Nothing is ever your fault, is it? You make baby after baby with Mamma and leave. You sell opium to these poor people and leave. You never have to face up to what you do. I smooth things over with Mamma, take care of the children so you aren’t bothered. I’ve protected them and Mamma against people like Dr. Thumpston and Deacon Wainwright.” There was no stopping me in my accusations. It all came out in a burst. “And how could you have turned the Wardian cases into a conveyance of evil? They are meant to hold life, not death, Papa!”

  “Well then, you have it all sorted out.” We were standing toe-to-toe now, our grief and anger matching one for one. “How perceptive you are! And now you know why I didn’t want you to come.” Papa turned away, his shoulders stiff. For once I didn’t care how he was feeling or if he needed soothing. For once I let him be.

  “When we find the orchids and sail to England, you can return to your life at Kew,” I said. “Mamma doesn’t want you home, nor do I. You have blood on your hands, and only God can forgive you. Violetta once said she hoped she’d never see you again, and I told her she shouldn’t say such things, but now I agree with her.”

  He turned back, his face a mask of pain. “You think people are either one way or the other—evil or good. You stand in judgment, don’t you? The almighty Elodie, who is perfect. Think on this, my daughter. Why would I be chasing after a flower to save my family when all I need do is write to Jardine Matheson and offer to bring in opium to the people here? It’s legal now; no one can harm me, I can sell with impunity. One Wardian case full of opium bricks is all I need to discharge Mr. Pringle’s debt. But I choose not to, because I refuse to take part in this horror one more minute. I can’t put the lid back on this Pandora’s box we English let loose, and I don’t know if anyone ever can. But I won’t be a part of it ever again. I won’t save my family to ruin someone else’s.

  “Now you know why your mother despises me. I don’t wish that you were a boy. That’s not why I didn’t want you with me. It’s because I wished to protect you from all of this. Don’t you see, Elodie? You and your sisters are the only thing left to me that hasn’t been sullied by what I’ve done.”

  Ching Lan came out then. “I heard shouting,” she said. “Is everything all right?”

  “The soldiers have stolen one of the mules,” he told her. He looked away from me, and if Ching Lan suspected any other reasons for our loud voices, she said nothing.

  Papa returned to the inn with Ching Lan, but I couldn’t go back in there. I sat on a boulder next to the path. My stomach roiled and pitched, my pulse would not settle. Not filial. I felt those words around my shoulders, heavy as one of those cangues. What if Papa was right? What if I was judging people, naming them good or bad? Pru and Alex were perfect, Mamma was a saint, Papa adventurous and dashing, Holst and Deacon Wainwright were villains. I never thought good and bad could exist in one person because I had never let myself be anything less than perfect.

  I RETURNED TO THE INN TO FIND CHING LAN EATING BREAKFAST alone. The old Chinese lady served me rice, tea, and pickled vegetables for breakfast. The inn was quiet. Either all the men had returned home or they were sleeping behind the closed doors.

  “What is wrong, Elodie?” Ching Lan asked. “You’re sad. Everyone is sad.”

  The rice stuck in my throat along with the words I wanted to say. “Papa and I argued,” I finally said. “I said some terrible things to him.”

  Ching Lan looked sympathetic.

  “I deserve the cangue.”

  “Oh,” she said, nodding. She took another bite of vegetables. “Can you say sorry? Would that work?”

  “I don’t know.” I pushed the dish away. I wanted nothing more than to lay my head on the table and sleep for a year.

  When I saw Papa after breakfast, he refused to speak to me, walking away whenever I tried to approach him. Alex was equally quiet, busying himself with transferring our goods to Ink and Tinker, as he was the biggest horse we had who could carry a pack and a rider. I didn’t know what to say to Alex. How could he have so easily returned to smoking opium after all he had told me? I didn’t understand. We finally left at noon.

  We had been riding in silence for a few hours when the weather began to change. The sky grew heavy and dark, the temperature cooling as we rode higher into the mountains. An ominous fog rolled in, wrapping around the trees and gathering into the valleys. The tops of the hills floated on top of the fog, making them look as though they wore collars of white gossamer. As we wound around the mountain, the mist grew so dense I could only just see Ink’s tail in front of me.

  My memory kept casting back to last night and my discussion with Alex and that awful word catamite. Alex as a young boy, with no one to care for him or tend to him. The only affection came from a prostitute who gave him drugs in order to help him tolerate the intolerable. I hadn’t believed Mr. Howell before, so I hadn’t let myself understand the consequences of opium, but now I could not stop seeing Papa passing the opium bricks out, like sweeties from Father Christmas. I was suddenly g
lad of the fog, because no one would see me crying.

  An hour later it began to rain, a searing, downward torrent that fell so hard it threatened to knock us out of our saddles. We scanned the hills for a temple or another wayside inn where we could shelter, but nothing was in sight. We were in a remote area in between villages. I suggested we camp, but Papa refused. We kept moving, hoping to reach some sort of civilization by nightfall.

  Beau, with Alex riding him, lead the way, gamely trudging on, his head down and his ears tilting sideways to keep the rain out, followed by Ink, and then me on Blossom. Behind me, I could hear Piggy snorting in alarm, his hooves rattling on the stone path as he jigged along, and Ching Lan’s exclamations in Chinese.

  I swear the rain came down stronger, barreling against us so hard that the droplets stung when they hit my skin. The paths ran with water, making a difficult going that much harder. Ink’s hooves slipped on the path, scrambling for purchase. A snap sounded from overhead; a tree branch broke off and slithered down the hillside and behind the mule. Startled, Ink jumped to the side, his hooves slipping out from under him, and he fell to his knees, his muzzle striking the ground.

  As he struggled to stand up, one of his packs containing our precious supplies tumbled from his back and hurtled down the hill. Piggy stopped, refusing to go on, refusing to follow Blossom as he had been trained to do.

  “Piggy,” I twisted in my saddle. “Go!”

  Ching Lan shouted at him in Chinese, but he ignored both of us. He stood there, trembling, his ears flattened against his head.

  But Piggy knew something we did not.

  Another snap sounded, and stones began to rain down from the slope of the hill. At first only gentle, the slew of gravel picked up speed as it went, and soon it was tumbling, sliding in a wedge of dirt and rocks. It was as though the entire hillside had broken loose from its moorings. I watched, horrified, as debris, trees, plants, rocks, dirt slid in a loud jumble of chaos. Ink brayed in fear, leaping ahead and bumping into Alex.

  Alex shouted, and I kicked Blossom forward, just in time to avoid being swept over the gorge in that river of debris.

  The landslide blocked the path behind Ink, separating us from Papa and Ching Lan. I didn’t know if we were only divided or if the rocks had swept them over.

  Alex and I leapt from our horses and ran to the rubble. The rocks had blocked the path entirely. The path sheered off into a deep ravine that dropped hundreds of feet to the river below. The only way out was forward.

  “Papa! Ching Lan!” I shouted, my voice sounding high and not at all like myself. Panic grabbed me thick and hot, and I began to scramble through the debris, desperate to reach Papa and Ching Lan. Alex pulled me back.

  “Careful, Elodie,” he said, gripping my shoulders. “The ground may still be unstable.”

  “I don’t care!” I said. “My father!” What if the last words I’d said to him were those awful things? If he died believing I hated him.

  “You’re not going to help either of them if you cause another landslide.”

  The rain was stopping, clouds scuttling away, leaving blue sky in their wake. A cool breeze began to sweep through the ravine.

  And then, from behind the mound of rubble, we heard Ching Lan and Papa call out.

  “Are you all right?” I answered. I wanted to sob with relief.

  “We are,” Ching Lan said. “Thanks to Piggy.”

  “Are you harmed, my dear?” Papa called. The concern in his voice broke my heart. I wanted to push my way through the rubble and hug him, tell him how sorry I was for the terrible things I had said to him. “You and Alex have to go now in case another landslide occurs. Ching Lan and I will return to the base of this hill and go around,” Papa said. “But it will take a day or so.”

  “We’ll wait for you at a temple,” I said.

  “You’ll have to go on without us. Ching Lan and I will meet you at the orchid’s location.”

  “We can’t go on without you. I don’t know where it is!” It was impossible. My plant hunting in England was all make-believe. I ventured into the woods only a few yards from the path. I knew my way around Edencroft perfectly. If I were lost here, I would never find my way back.

  “My sketchbook is in one of Ink’s packs. Go and find it.”

  The packs. I looked down into the ravine to see the one that had fallen from Ink’s back snagged on a boulder, impossible to retrieve.

  “I’ll look through the others,” Alex said, putting a comforting hand on my shoulder.

  Thankfully, Alex found the sketchbook in one of Ink’s remaining packs. I opened it to the map Papa had redrawn. “I have it.”

  “Do you see where we are? There’s a temple just ahead. There’s a bamboo forest around it.”

  I ran my finger up the trail to the drawing of the temple. “Yes, I see it.”

  “Now, the orchids are a day’s ride from there. It’s growing dark, so Ching Lan and I must turn back and make a shelter. Go on ahead and stay at the temple for the night.”

  “But—”

  “Elodie! There’s no other choice.” Papa sounded so desperate, so much like the broken man I had seen at that little cottage in Kew, that I remembered why I had come on the expedition in the first place. I shook myself out of my fear—it was up to me to find the orchid, and I would prove to Papa and to myself that I could. “Follow the map.”

  “Are you sure it’s correct?”

  “Make sure to look for a thin rock standing on its own. It’s quite unusual. You’ll know you’re in the right place. Alex, stay vigilant for Luther Duffey, and keep the rifle with you.”

  “Go, Elodie,” Ching Lan said. “You can find the wildflower. I know you can.”

  I stood, waiting until the din of their horses’ hooves faded away. Only then did Alex and I mount our horses and leave.

  WE FOUND SHELTER AT THE TEMPLE ON PAPA’S MAP, THE MONKS ALlowing us room in the shabby pavilion and a spot to hobble our animals and let them graze. Alex and I set about arranging camp, building a little fire in the forecourt of the temple and laying out the mats for the night. We took stock of what we had left. Two of the four Wardian cases had been lost when the pack fell from Ink’s back, along with our medical kit and tents.

  I set to making supper, searching for a pack with food supplies. Most of our food was in Tinker’s pack, with Papa and Ching Lan, but I knew we had a few sacks of dried beef and peas, tea, and powdered milk in each pack for emergencies. I was aware of Alex next to me, his shoulders as stiff as mine. He looked at me sideways a few times, but I pretended not to notice.

  I found my hands shaking as I sorted through the packs. I felt as though the opium had stolen Alex’s life, as surely as it had stolen Mamma and Papa’s. What was more, Alex still looked unwell, stopping in his task several times to rub his forehead. His eyes looked pinched and strained.

  “I’m sorry for last night,” Alex said, finally breaking our awkward silence. “I’m sorry for what I did, for what I said.”

  “You don’t owe me an apology, Alex,” I said, keeping my back to him.

  “Why do you say that?”

  Finally I saw the sack I wanted, wedged underneath a Wardian case. I struggled to lift it.

  “Here, let me,” Alex said, and I moved out of the way. He retrieved the sack and handed it to me.

  “Because you don’t owe me an explanation,” I said. “Your life is yours to live, as is mine. We are friends, and that’s all. What you do is not my business.” My words came out harsher than I meant them to, and Alex looked hurt. I’d never felt more alone in the whole of my life.

  The monks began their evening service, raising their voices together in a tuneless chant both beautiful and heartbreaking.

  Alex nodded slowly. “Yes, of course.” He looked as though he were going to say something else. “I’ll see to the horses, then.”

/>   I went to the edge of the temple’s courtyard and looked out into the wilderness. Mountains, pine, and bamboo forests stretched before me mile after mile, the Queen’s Fancy nestled somewhere inside it.

  My family’s safety and future lay upon that tiny orchid’s petals.

  TWENTY-FOUR

  Alex and I left before daybreak the next day. We followed Papa’s map along the mountain trail, which here was little more than a thin line of cobblestones worn smooth from the feet of coolies traveling over them for hundreds of years. We were forced to keep the horses to a walk for most of the way, but when it was safe to do so, we pushed them into a canter, Ink ambling gamely behind. We skirted the village, disappearing into the forest, to avoid being seen by anyone, should the orchid thief be about.

  Several hours later we reached the turning. Papa had marked its presence with a drawing of a tall cracked boulder, and it was simple enough to find. The undergrowth had swallowed up the trail from there, so we had to hobble the horses and go on foot, pushing our way through. I was so desperate to see the Queen’s Fancies and collect them that my entire body was humming with tension.

  There was a little path, most likely made by a serow or muntjac, that we walked along. Wild goats and deer may have had an easy way of traveling along the trail, but there was no easy way for us. The path was often overhung with heavy grass and brambles, and at times we had to drop to all fours and squeeze our way through. Alex, rifle in hand, kept a keen eye out for tigers (and orchid thieves) that might have been lurking in the brush, waiting for a chance to pounce. The brambles and sword grass were like live things, scratching and cutting into our skin, grabbing at our hair and clothing, pulling us back so that each movement was an ordeal. It seemed as though every step we took forward, we took three backward.

  It soon became evident that we had taken the wrong turning. The needlelike rock Papa had drawn on the map to mark the orchids’ presence never appeared. Frustrated behind measure, we pushed our way back and rode ahead another mile where we saw a second boulder that better resembled the picture. But there was no undergrowth here. The vegetation had been trampled down, and the branches that overhung the path slashed away with machetes.