The Skin Map be-1

by Stephen R. Lawhead

  “Okay, okay, I get it,” conceded Kit. “You need the map to find your way around a very complex system.”

  “Exactly,” agreed Cosimo, warming to his argument. “Now, imagine if you will that you discovered a tube system that was several million times larger than the London Underground, and that there were an inconceivable number of individual lines linking billions of stations and a simply unimaginable number of trains…”

  “That would be some big system,” observed Kit.

  “And just to make it more interesting, imagine that there was a time element involved so that you never knew when you arrived somewhere what year it might be, or even what century!”

  “Awkward,” Kit allowed.

  “That is very near the situation we are in, my son,” said Cosimo, leaning back on the bench. “As it happens, Sir Henry and I have visited and committed to memory a few of the lines and several of the stations in our local neighbourhood, as it were. But the far, far greater part of this gigantic system remains a complete and utter mystery-”

  “We don’t even know how many other systems there might be,” added Sir Henry. “More than there are stars in the sky, it would seem.”

  “Furthermore,” added Cosimo, “to even attempt to travel without the map beyond the few lines we know is incredibly dangerous.”

  “Right, so what do you do if you get lost?”

  “Dear boy, getting lost is the least of your worries,” his great-grandfather declared. “Consider-jump blind and you might find yourself on the rim of a raging volcano, or smack in the middle of a battlefield during a savage war, or on a swiftly tilting ice floe in a tempest-tossed sea.” Cosimo spread his hands and shook his head. “Anything could happen. That is why the map is monumentally, vitally, crucially, life-and-death important.”

  “Hear! Hear!” said Sir Henry with a tap of his stick. “We owe Arthur Flinders-Petrie the highest debt of gratitude.”

  There was more he wanted to ask, but Kit felt his brain beginning to fuddle. Yet there was one worry that had been gnawing on his conscience. “Getting back to Wilhelmina,” he said. “What happens if, after all we do, we still can’t find her? Tell me the truth. What’s the worst that can happen?”

  “Who knows?” said Cosimo. “She could of course fall prey to any number of assaults, or she herself might cause unimaginable damage, unleashing catastrophe after catastrophe of unreckoned proportions-”

  “Unwittingly, of course,” suggested Sir Henry.

  “Or, she could merely settle into a new life as a peculiar stranger in a foreign land, get married, raise a family, and do no harm whatsoever. Then again, depending on the local circumstance, she could be burned at the stake for a witch.” Cosimo lifted an equivocal palm. “There is simply no way to predict the outcome.”

  “The chief difficulty, you see, is that being out of joint with her temporal surroundings as she undoubtedly is, the young lady might introduce an idea or attitude alien to the natural course of development of the world in which she now finds herself.” Sir Henry, hands folded over his walking stick, turned his face to the coach window and took in the scenery. “It is such a very complicated business.”

  “I’ll say. So, if she changed something in that world,” ventured Kit, who was finally beginning to grasp something of the awful magnitude of the problem, “the changes would spread throughout the universe.”

  “Drop a stone into a millpond and watch the ripples multiply until the whole pond is disturbed.”

  Cosimo nodded. “‘Thou canst not stir a flower, without troubling of a star,’” he declaimed.

  Sir Henry smiled at the quotation. “I have never heard that. Who said it?”

  “It’s from a poem by a chap named Francis Thompson-a bit after your time, I’m afraid. Nice, though, isn’t it? Here’s another: ‘The innocent moon, that nothing does but shine, moves all the labouring surges of the world.’”

  Turning once more to Kit, he said, “The point is that through some innocent action your girlfriend might, like Pandora of old, wreak havocs great and small throughout this universe and beyond.”

  “Then we’d better find her fast,” said Kit. “Knowing Wilhelmina, she’s probably stirred up a whole field of flowers by now.”

  CHAPTER 12

  In Which a Notable Skin Is Honourably Inscribed

  Macau sweltered beneath an unforgiving August sun, and the Mirror Sea was calm. The tall ships in Oyster Bay, the few wispy clouds in the sky, the lazily circling seabirds-all were faithfully replicated in precise detail in their liquid reflections. And none of it evaded the hooded gaze of Wu Chen Hu as he sat on his low stool before the entrance to his small shop on White Lotus Street, above the harbour.

  A small, nimble man of venerable age, his squat form swathed in a light green silk robe, he leaned against the crimson doorpost and smoked a long clay pipe, watching the aromatic wisps drift lazily up to heaven. Every now and then he turned his eyes to the bay to take in a familiar summer sight: a ship being rowed into harbour by its tender boat. During the dull summer season, when the gods slept and the weather was still, there was often not enough wind to drive the big trading ships into harbour, so they must be rowed by their crews-sometimes from many miles out at sea-into port.

  The ship was Portuguese, of course: a large full-bellied sea hound with three skyscraping masts and a great curved scimitar of a prow. Fully laden with trade goods, it required three tenders to haul its bulk into the bay, while lifeless canvas hung limp on the spars. Soon the docks would shake off their slumber and resume the business of transporting goods from hold to shore. For the next few days at least, there would be work and money for the dockyard lackeys. And eventually work, too, for Chen Hu.

  Sailors were the principal source of income for Wu’s Heavenly Tattau. Portuguese sailors were the chief contributors to his modest personal wealth.

  From his lofty vantage point on White Lotus Street, he watched as the ship was slowly berthed and roped, and the gangplanks extended. There was a scurry of activity on deck as the cargo vessel was made secure. In a little while, the welcoming delegation arrived: a body made up of the harbourmaster and his assistants, several customs officials, heads of the various trading houses concerned, and the local labour broker. There would be the obligatory exchange of gifts, speeches read out, official documents presented and signed, and then-and only then-would the first voyagers be allowed to come ashore.

  The dutiful servants of the emperor were highly skilled bureaucrats. Such ceremonies employed and honed the arts of official obfuscation and obscurantism that, from the highest sceptre-wielding magistrate to the lowest ink-dipper, served to protect someone’s position in the imperial pecking order. The Qing Dynasty revelled in its bureaucracy.

  Wu Chen Hu knew all about bureaucracy. As one of the few private businessmen allowed to deal directly with foreign devils, he had attracted more than the usual amount of official interest in his affairs over the years. Everyone from tax officials to building inspectors knew, and respected, the House of Wu. He saw to it that the right palms were lubricated with the right measure of monetary grease to ensure that his business ran smoothly and with a minimum of interference.

  He rubbed the back of his neck and put on his straw hat to shade his eyes, and continued to watch the ship. Soon-if not tonight, then surely tomorrow or the next day-the sailors would begin to find their way to his door. He thought of sending a boy or two down to the docks to advertise his services; better still, a girl. Sailors liked the young girls and followed them blithely.

  But it was early yet. It was best to wait and see. If the expected trade did not appear, or proved a little too sluggish for his liking, he could send the girls.

  Chen Hu finished his pipe and gently knocked the bowl against the leg of his stool to tap out the ashes, then rose and went into his shop. He removed his hat and knelt beside the hearth and took up the little iron kettle, filled it with water from the stoup, and set it on the brazier. He settled himself cross-legge
d with eyes closed and waited. When he heard the burbling sound of water beginning to boil, he counted out nine green leaves from a pouch at his belt and dropped them into the steaming water. A few moments later, the aroma rose to his nostrils and he removed the kettle from the coals. He was just pouring the fresh brew into a tiny porcelain cup when the room darkened.

  He turned to see the shape of a large man silhouetted in the doorway.

  From the ungainly and graceless stance, he could tell his visitor was a gaijin. He sighed, poured his tea back into the kettle, stood, tucked his hands into the wide sleeves of his robe, and moved to the door, using the shuffling gait that indicated humility.

  “Good luck to you,” he said in his best Portuguese. “Please to come in.” He bowed low to his visitor.

  “May good fortune follow you all your days,” said the stranger in a voice at once distinctive and familiar. He stepped back into the light and began unbuckling his shoes.

  “Masta Attu! It is you!” cried the Chinese artisan.

  “I have returned, Chen Hu,” replied the dark-haired gentleman with a reverential bow. Switching smoothly to English, he said, “Tell me, old friend, how fares the House of Wu?”

  “All is well, Masta Attu,” replied Chen Hu with a wide, betel-stained grin. His facility with English was only slightly less assured than his Portuguese; both had been earned through long association with sailors. “How could it be otherwise now that you are here?”

  “It is good to see you, too, Chen Hu,” replied Arthur Flinders-Petrie, his own grin wide and fulsome. “You are the very picture of health. Your daughter, Xian-Li-how is she? Well, I hope?”

  “Never better, Masta Attu. It will bring her great joy to know that you have returned. I will send for her at once.”

  “It would be lovely to see her, of course,” said the Englishman. “Later, perhaps-after we have done some business.”

  “Let it be as you wish.” The Chinese merchant bowed.

  “Then let us get to it!” said Arthur in a voice much too loud for the little shop. “I am itching to get this new design safely tucked away.”

  “Please to come this way.” He led his visitor to a low couch beside a large window covered with a bamboo screen. “Be seated, sir, and allow me to bring you a cup of cha.”

  “Thank you, my friend.” Arthur sat down on the silk-covered settee and began unlacing his shirt. “It is a very oven out there. We’ve been a-stew in our own juices for a fortnight. Hardly a breath of wind to stir the sails. Dead in the water these last two days.”

  “Ah, yes,” replied Chen Hu, pouring out the pale yellow infusion. “It is the Season of the Dog. Very hot everywhere. Very bad for business. No one sells because no one buys. Very bad.” He presented the small porcelain cup with a bow, then turned to pour one for himself.

  Arthur raised his cup. “Health to you, Chen Hu!” He sampled the hot liquid gingerly. “Ah! How I have missed the cha.” He smacked his lips in the accepted sign of satisfaction. “Thank you, my friend.”

  “The pleasure is mine,” replied the merchant, inclining his head slightly.

  They drank for a while in silence; it was rude to intrude on another’s enjoyment of cha. When the formalities had been concluded and the cups set aside, Arthur thanked his host and said, “If you have no pressing business, I would like to begin at once.”

  “Your servant awaits your command, sir.”

  A fair-size man with a compact frame, Arthur stood and removed his shirt, pulling the capacious garment off over his head to reveal a well-muscled trunk covered with hundreds of neatly etched designs-some no larger than a walnut, others as big as a fist; most the size of a clamshell-all meticulously rendered in deep indigo blue.

  “The work of a true artist,” remarked Arthur happily. He ran a hand over the swathe of tattaus. “Each and every one a miniature masterpiece.”

  “I am honoured, sir.”

  “Now, then!” Arthur gave his belly a slap. “I have a new one that will tax your skills, Chen Hu. I believe it is the most important of them all.”

  “They are all important to me, sir.”

  “Of course they are.” He gazed down the bare length of his long torso. “I have just the right place for it here.” He touched a place in the lower centre of his chest just below his breastbone. “In the centre, surrounded by all the others.”

  Chen Hu bent near to scrutinize the proposed location. “How big is the design to be, sir?”

  “Oh! Yes, I have made a rendering of it.” He fished in the pocket of his breeches and brought out a small, much-creased bit of parchment, soft with use. He sat down and smoothed the scrap over his knee. “Here it is,” he said, his voice dropping low-whether through his customary fear of being overheard, or awe for the symbol was not certain. “I found it at last, my friend-the ultimate prize, for I do believe it to be the greatest treasure ever known.”

  The Chinese artisan fixed his gaze on the swirl of lines, half circles, dots, triangles, and odd geometrical symbols. He scrutinized them carefully, pulling on his long moustache all the while. “Treasure, sir? Does this one have a name?”

  “The Well of Souls,” declared Arthur Flinders-Petrie reverently.

  “Ah, so…,” mused the artist. “Well of Souls.”

  To Chen Hu, who did not understand the significance of any of the curious designs he had rendered for his friend over the years, it looked exactly the same as all the others: a tightly controlled swash of abstract ciphers. They were, he considered, elegant in their own way as the Pinyin script was elegant, but utterly devoid of any comprehensible meaning.

  But then, all foreign devils were mad. Everyone knew this. And in any case, it was not the place of the House of Wu to question the desires of its patrons.

  “Very fine, sir,” Chen Hu assured him. He examined the bare patch of skin on Arthur’s chest. “May I?”

  At a nod from his client, the artist took up the small rag of parchment and lifted it into place, observing how it would sit in the space indicated. If turned slightly, the design would fit perfectly well, he decided. As always, Arthur had laboured over his drawing and had planned it precisely-not like the roaring host of besotted sailors who came to him drunk in the small hours of the night demanding the names of lovers or ships or mothers entwined with anchors or angels.

  Concluding his inspection, the merchant grunted with satisfaction.

  “All is well?” asked Arthur.

  Chen Hu inclined his head. “I need only a moment to assemble my instruments.”

  “Then do so. I wish to begin as soon as possible. You don’t know how I have fretted over this tattoo-I was afraid something would happen before I could reach you.”

  “You are here now. There is nothing to fear.” The merchant rose slowly. “Please, relax. I will rejoin you when all is ready. Would you like some more cha?”

  “Yes, I think I would.”

  Chen Hu poured another cup from the steaming kettle and departed, leaving his client reclining on the couch. He padded silently into the tiny back room to prepare his engraving instruments: a phalanx of long bamboo rods tipped with very sharp steel points. He gathered up a handful of the rods and placed the pins in amongst the burning coals of the brazier, turning each one before withdrawing it and setting it aside to cool. When this was finished, he prepared some of his precious ink. The ink, always freshly made using a secret recipe developed over twenty years in the trade, was only ever mixed in small batches. A Wu Chen Hu creation was a vivid blue: never muddy or, worse yet, washed out like those of the cheaper waterfront vendors. This, as much as the skill of the practitioner, set Wu’s Heavenly Tattau high above all the rest.

  A Wu Chen Hu masterpiece was made to endure. He had no doubt his work would last the lifetime of its owner, and beyond.

  With slow, deliberate movements, he dribbled a few drops of the rich blue ink into a small stone vessel, took up the steel-tipped rods, and arranged them on a teak tray with a stack of clean, neatly folded rags. W
hen all was ready, he carried the tray back into the shop and placed it on a low table beside the couch. Next, he crossed to the hearth, knelt, and took up a bunch of joss sticks, lit them, and as the fragrant smoke ascended, he offered prayers to all the relevant gods to guide his hands auspiciously.

  “Shall we begin?” he asked, seating himself on a stool before the settee.

  “By all means,” replied Arthur with a magnanimous wave of his hand. “I place myself in your capable hands, my friend. Do with me as you will.”

  The small silk-robed man settled on his stool and, leaning near, placed the scrap of parchment on his reclining client’s bare chest. He studied it for a moment, then began to lightly sketch the design in blue ink. When he was satisfied that he had rendered the proposed drawing perfectly, he rose and retrieved a small brass disk and held it against the still-damp drawing.

  “Splendid!” exclaimed Arthur happily. “You may proceed.”

  Replacing the brass disk, Chen Hu picked up one of the thin rods, dipped the steel point into the ink pot, and then, stretching his client’s pale skin between thumb and forefinger, he pricked it: deeply, cleanly, and repeatedly. The jabs were so quick they seemed to merge into one. The process was swiftly and deftly repeated and a smooth rhythm established, punctuated by brief pauses to dab away the odd drop of excess ink or consult the parchment before the incessant pricking resumed.