The Forbidden Orchid

by Sharon Biggs Waller

  “Are you sure this is correct?” Alex asked.

  “It must be,” I said. “There’s the cracked boulder. Someone’s been this way.”

  “It might not be the orchid thief,” Alex said. “Villagers may have come down to forage for food or to hunt muntjacs.” All the same, he returned to his horse and took the rifle from his saddle.

  The path wound down the mountain and then up again. As Alex and I traveled farther into the wilderness, the woodsy scent of the forest became covered over by something else, something acrid and bitter.

  It was the stench of burning.

  The trees abruptly ended, and the beauty of the forest swiftly changed into a nightmare of destruction. Everywhere we looked the land had been scorched; nothing was left. An entire swathe of jungle had been destroyed, and quite recently. Smoke rose from blackened branches, and the ground was dotted with the scorched carcasses of animals that hadn’t been swift enough to escape the fire. There was not a single Queen’s Fancy to be found.

  Alex searched around, kicking the brush over. “This is where your father said the orchid was?”

  “There’s the rock shaped like a needle,” I said. “Would there be a reason for the mountain villagers to burn the forest?”

  “No.”

  I looked around, speechless, horrified, not only by the needless destruction of such beautiful land, but by the realization that I had failed. Luther Duffey had been before me, had taken every orchid, and then torched what he couldn’t carry.

  The beauty and fecundity of the land that surrounded the devastation gave some sense of hope that nature might someday creep in over the edges and reclaim its former glory. But would the orchid return to the wild? Would it ever be seen here again?

  We returned to the horses and found a place to make our camp in a clearing to wait for Papa and Ching Lan. The mordant smell of smoke followed us, clinging to our clothing and hair, a macabre reminder of what had been lost.

  I scrubbed my face and hands over and over in a nearby stream, trying to wash away the smell of smoke and failure.

  It couldn’t be over. There had to be another way. Perhaps I could write to Mr. Pringle and throw myself on his mercy. It wasn’t as though we hadn’t tried to find it.

  But then I thought of Mr. Pringle that day he came to Edencroft, how he had ruthlessly knocked my plants to the ground. How he had sent bailiffs to our house to sort through our things. A man willing to compromise would not behave in such a way.

  What if . . . what if Papa decided to sell opium again to save us? That horrible thought cut through me like a blade. Papa had said he wouldn’t save our family only to hurt another. But faced with desperation and penury, would he turn back to transporting opium? If he had to, I knew he would never forgive himself, nor would Mamma.

  And I would never forgive myself for failing.

  I felt a hand on my shoulder. “I’m so sorry, myshka.”

  It took the remaining strength I had to stand tall and not crumple, to fight back the tears that waited to burst forth, to swallow the sobs that threatened. I lifted my head and saw Alex watching me, pity in his eyes.

  I shrugged his hand off and pressed my palms into my eyes so hard I saw stars. I couldn’t bear it. I stumbled off into the forest and sank down on a rock. For one moment I thought I smelled burnt raspberries and cream, like a fruit crumble that had been left too long in the oven. I kept picturing the Queen’s Fancy orchids curling up in the heat, succumbing to the flames, the petals and leaves reduced to ashes in moments, my family’s lives reduced to ashes along with them. I cried until I couldn’t cry anymore, until my throat burned and my eyes ached. Everything I had done to protect my family had failed.

  Alex left me alone, saying nothing, and we set the camp up together silently, moving around each other as though we were strangers. I was numb.

  Alex looked pale and drawn, pinching the bridge of his nose every so often. It took him twice as long to light the fire as it usually did, his fingers fumbling with the matches and kindling. Then he sat back on his heels, blinking, staring into the fire as though it had taken his last ounce of strength.

  That night, I woke somewhere around midnight, unable to work out what had awakened me so suddenly. The blankets were damp, but it hadn’t rained nor was the ground wet with dew. As usual we had placed a canvas on the ground to protect what bedding we had left from the forest floor. It was very dark, the clouds had scuttled across the moon, and the stars, usually so bright and plentiful, had been blotted out. Alex turned away from me, and I reached out to touch him for reassurance. That’s when I discovered the reason for the wet bedclothes—Alex was soaked. And he was shivering, trembling so hard that I could hear his teeth clattering together.

  Quickly I patted around the ground for the lantern, found it, and lit it with the matches in my skirt pocket. I twisted the little brass knob, coaxing the lamp to its highest flame, not caring if I wasted the oil. When I held the lantern up I saw that Alex lay hunched over in the pool of light, his legs drawn up and his arms wrapped around his body.

  Thinking he was in the throes of a nightmare, I shook him. “Alex! Alex, wake up!” But this did not rouse him. Instead, he shrank away from my touch and shivered all the more. I felt his forehead.

  Not a nightmare. A fever. And a bad one at that. His skin was hot to the touch; so hot I could barely stand to keep my hand against it. I laid my hand on his shoulder, and I could feel the heat seeping through his shirt.

  Alex shuddered and jerked his shoulder away. “Don’t touch me.”

  “I’m sorry!” I sat back on my heels. “I didn’t mean to hurt you.”

  “Get out!” he shouted. “Get away from me. I don’t want it!”

  I dared to touch him again, and he sat up, his face slick with sweat, his eyes darting around in their sockets. Despite the fever, his face was white, and he glared at something in front of him, an apparition that only he could see. Whatever illness had taken him, he was deep in its grip. He shot out his fist, punching the air.

  I grabbed the lantern and stood up well out of his reach. The fit had taken his last bit of strength, and he fell back onto the ground.

  Water. Where had we left the pan of boiled water? I swung the lantern to orient myself. The horses snorted and stamped, upset by Alex’s shouting and the sudden appearance of light. Beau jumped forward, testing the limits of his hobbles. As I spoke softly to them to calm them, I spied the covered pan sitting on the other side of the campfire, ready for morning. I fetched it, along with a bundle of cloth, and brought it back to Alex.

  He lay on his back, half on, half off, our pallet. I swished the rags into the water, wrung them out, and pressed the cloths against his forehead. He grabbed my wrist, squeezing hard.

  “No!” he said. “I told you.” This was followed by a string of Russian.

  “Alex!” I pried at his fingers. “Let go of me. I’m trying to help you!”

  Alex’s eyes popped open. He lifted his head a little, his eyes squinting against the lantern’s light. He moaned and let his head fall back. “Oh no. It’s not happening again,” he muttered. “Not again, not now.”

  I leaned closer to him. “What is happening again?” I shook his shoulder a little when he failed to respond. “Alex! Tell me.”

  “I can’t stop shaking,” he said, his teeth clattering. “I can’t. I’m so cold.”

  “Do you know what this illness is?” I pulled the blanket from the pallet and draped it over him. “Is this an effect of the opium?”

  “No . . . it’s ague,” he said. “Malaria.”

  “Are you sure? Have you had it before?”

  “Yes. But not for years. I don’t know. I don’t remember. I’m cold.” He reached out, his fingers grasping at my clothing. I tucked the blanket tight around his sides, but still he shivered. His body shook so violently that he threw the blanket off. I tuc
ked it under again, and yet he tossed it off once more. Desperate, I replaced the blanket and lay on top of him, hoping that some of my own warmth would transfer to him. I could feel his muscles jerking and twisting under my body.

  I felt utterly helpless, unable to help him in any real way. I’d heard of malaria before, of course I had. And I knew that once a person had it, the illness could attack again whenever and however it pleased. I’d read of men struck down, reduced to shadows of themselves, wracked by fever, convulsions, and sweating. And even killed by the disease outright. Quinine was the treatment, and there was another medicine that was sworn by. I tried to remember its name. Warburg’s tincture, that was it. But knowing the name was useless to me because where in the wilderness could I find a shop that sold it? Ridiculous. Nowhere. I touched Alex’s forehead again. Still blazing hot.

  “What can I do, Alex? I don’t know what to do.” What I wanted to do was cry, but I needed to get hold of myself. Crying and whimpering would do nothing to help him.

  “Get off!” Alex pushed at me. “I’m hot!”

  It was insane how fast he was swinging from one temperature to the next. I dipped the cloth into the pot of cool water and laid it on his forehead.

  “Will Ching Lan know what to do, Alex? Alex, listen to me.” I leaned close to him so he could hear me. “Will Ching Lan know?”

  Alex opened his eyes. “Myshka?” he said. “What are you doing here? Where’s Kukla?”

  “Kukla’s back on the Osprey, Alex.”

  “Why?”

  “Robin is looking after her for you. Remember? We decided she was safer on the ship than here.”

  “That’s all wrong.” His brow knit together. “Elodie is looking after her.”

  Oh dear lord, please don’t let him be losing his senses. A strong fever could do that, the heat baking the brain until very little memory remained. I had to get his fever to break. The cloth was growing hot under my hand, and I swished it around in the water again, returning it to his forehead.

  “My head aches.”

  “I know. I know it must. What can I do? What did you do before when the malaria struck?”

  He kicked at the blanket. “I want to get up. I have to go. I don’t want to be here.” I took his hand, but he yanked it away. He sat up again, blinking around him.

  “Will you take some water?” I held the tin cup to his mouth, cupping his head in my hand, and mercifully he drank. “I think you should try to sleep, and then in the morning we’ll see where we are. I’m sure you’ll feel better. Sleep helps everything.” I was babbling, saying whatever came into my mind because I didn’t know what else to do.

  I poured another cup of water and held it up to Alex’s lips, and he drank it down willingly. But then he turned his head and vomited it all up, splashing me in the process.

  He slumped back to the ground, groaning, his knees pulled up to his chest. I covered him with the blanket and stared at him stupidly. I felt like the weakest, dumbest girl, fluttering my hands and uttering such mewling words. I was good for nothing. In fact, worse than nothing. Alex was in my life at my insistence, and now he was forced to drag me along like an old millstone. If it weren’t for me, he’d be back on his ship with his father and Kukla where he belonged, most likely sailing for home, racing another tea clipper and earning fame and fortune. He wouldn’t be here, lying on the stony ground shivering and vomiting. He wouldn’t have ended up in that opium den. He’d be well and happy. If he died . . . if he died, it would be my fault.

  I wished desperately that my father were here, that Ching Lan were here. I wished that I wasn’t so useless.

  I crossed my arms over my chest, gripping myself hard. I had to stop being afraid and work out what to do on my own. Wishing Alex were safe on the Osprey wasn’t going to help him. When I nursed Mamma through Dahlia’s birth, I sat up with her, doing the best I could. So I would do the same for Alex. Perhaps the herb that Ching Lan had shown me could help, the one that grew along the riverbank. When the sun rose, I would look for it.

  The rest of the night passed by in a haze. I bathed Alex’s face and chest with cold water from the stream in an effort to bring his temperature down. My fingers grew wrinkled and numb from the water, and my arm ached from holding the wet cloth to his head. Each time he grew cold I would lie on him. Each time he grew hot, I would fan him and bathe him with fresh water from the stream. His fever reached such a pitch that he was babbling in Russian and Chinese. I constantly banked the fire so it wouldn’t go out, making sure to throw green bamboo on it to ward off any tigers. I kept the rifle near me, just in case the loud shots from the burning bamboo failed to scare the animals away. I’d have to pull the trigger, no matter how afraid of the gun I was. I was worried a tiger would prey on the animals, so I checked on them often. I went from Alex to the fire to the mules and horses to the stream and back again. Over and over like some kind of never-ending nightmarish task.

  Finally, weary beyond measure, I lay down next to Alex, holding the cloth against his brow. I was so tired, my eyes felt so heavy. I would just sleep a moment. Just a moment.

  I don’t know how much time had passed when I suddenly awoke to find Alex looming over me, his unbuttoned shirt sliding over his shoulder, his dark hair mussed up.

  “Elodie, wake up,” he said, shaking me. “Wake up, will you! I want to tell you something.” His face, illuminated by the firelight, blazed red as though he were lit from within, and his eyes glowed with a mad desperation.

  “What is it?” I struggled to sit up, but his hands on my shoulders held me firm to the ground. He said something in Russian. “I don’t know what you’re saying, Alex,” I said. “Say it in English.”

  “I love you.” He let go of my shoulders and pressed his palms against my face; they were so hot they burned.

  “What? What did you say?” The clouds had blown away, and now the night sky was filled with a thousand stars, so many they seemed to join together. From off in the distance I could hear a tiger cry. It all seemed quite dreamlike. For a moment I wondered if I’d gone so long without sleep that I was hallucinating all of this. But Alex felt real enough against me, the ground underneath me as unyielding as ever.

  “I love you with all my heart. Do you hear me? Do you understand?”

  “I . . . yes.” I was stunned, dumbfounded. “But Alex, I think that’s just the fever—”

  And then he dipped his head and kissed me.

  Before my mind could comprehend what was happening, my body responded, arching against him, pulling him closer. I kissed him back, starving for his touch, drinking him in like water. His body was familiar to me as my own bed at home, having spent so much time in repose together. But we occupied a different space now. It was as though a silken cord had been woven around our bodies, holding us together and preventing us from ever breaking apart. I was utterly lost in him.

  He leaned away and brushed his thumb over my cheek. “Promise me you won’t leave me. Promise me you’ll always be with me. You’re my family now. You are all I have.”

  “I promise,” I said, knowing that he would remember little about this moment once his fever broke. But I didn’t care. I wanted to pretend, for just that moment, that we could be together, that it could be possible. “Alex, I love you.”

  But I don’t believe he heard me, because seconds later the fever reclaimed him.

  THE MORNING BROKE, THE JUNGLE COMING ALIVE WITH BIRDSONG and chattering monkeys. Something crawled across my face and I jolted awake, slapping at my face. And suddenly I remembered.

  Alex.

  He lay on his back, one hand on his chest, the other stretched over his head. I sat up and felt his forehead. It was cool to my touch, but he didn’t waken. He breathed evenly, his chest rising and falling. He’d kicked the blanket off in the night, and so I pulled it back over him, tucking the edges around him.

  “Alex, I’m going to
get an herb to help you. I shan’t be long.”

  He nodded, but didn’t open his eyes.

  I got up and went behind a tree to relieve myself and then to the stream to splash water on my face. Groggy and disoriented, my legs feeling as though I wore leaden boots, I checked on the animals and fed them their dried beans, and then went off to search for the herb.

  I headed into the nearby ravine, where a stream tumbled through the bottom, and picked my way down the steep bank, following an animal track. There was the wormwood, hanging in a clump over the river. The ravine sheered off above it, and there was no simple way to reach it from the bank. There was nothing else for it but to take my boots and stockings off and slosh along through the water. By the time I reached the plants I was covered in mud and leeches. Although the leeches didn’t hurt, they still caused my skin to crawl. I stood on a gravel bank and pulled them off, their slimy bodies already plump from drinking in my blood. There was a lot of wormwood, so I pulled up great armfuls, as much as I could carry, tied it in a bundle, and slung it over my back.

  I climbed out of the river farther downstream, hoping to find an easier way out. I put my stockings and boots on over my wet feet and chose what looked like a clear path up the hill. I was nearly to the top of the ravine when I trod on a log, hidden in the leaves. It rolled away, sending me plummeting down the hill.

  My boots scrambled for purchase in the leaf litter, my chin skidded along the ground, the tips of my fingers clawing the soft earth. Trees whipped by in a blur, and in desperation I threw my arms out and managed to grab hold of a branch, halting my plummet toward the river.

  Panting with exertion, my heart pounding, I lay in the leaf litter for a moment, scratched and bleeding and gripping that branch for all I was worth. I was too terrified to let go, too terrified to stand up. Finally, I pushed myself to my knees, and there, right in front of me, on the tree I had grabbed, I saw an orchid.