Rembrandt's Ghost

by Paul Christopher

  ‘‘Ingenious,’’ said Winchester, impressed.

  ‘‘Ratlines,’’ said Billy, smiling. ‘‘They’ve turned ratlines on their side.’’

  ‘‘Ratlines?’’ Finn asked.

  ‘‘Those ropes like ladders on pirate ships,’’ explained Billy. ‘‘Sailors used them to climb up and lower the sails.’’

  ‘‘They would have had something like that on Zheng He’s treasure junks,’’ said Winchester. ‘‘A remnant from the past.’’

  ‘‘Cross,’’ instructed Fu Sheng. ‘‘One at a time.’’

  Finn went first, dropping down the knotted rope and out onto the twisting bridge. She wavered at first and slipped, then got the hang of it, shuffling sideways, gripping the upper rope firmly with both hands. Watching her go, Fu Sheng kept the heavy automatic ready in his hand, his dark eyes scanning the surrounding walls of noisy jungle, searching for a hint of anything out of place. Finn reached the far side, turned, and waited. Billy came next, followed quickly by Winchester. When Winchester was halfway across, there was a sudden gust of wind that shook the trees and the man’s hideous-looking goatskin cap flipped off and swirled down into the water.

  ‘‘Damn!’’ the professor cried. ‘‘My best hat!’’

  ‘‘No great loss.’’ Billy grinned, standing with Finn on the far bank. The gust of wind was followed by an equally sudden dark screen of cloud and an abrupt deluge. Within seconds the pounding rain became a torrential downpour, sheets of flailing water shrouding the other side of the stream like a heavy curtain, catching Winchester in midcrossing and instantly soaking Finn and Billy to the skin.

  They ran back into the protective cover offered by the enormous canopy of a gigantic gnarled jungletree and watched as Winchester struggled across the wildly swing bridge. He made it at last, then stumbled through the downpour, slipping wildly on the muddy ground, and joined Finn and Billy under the tree.

  ‘‘Bloody hell!’’ the professor breathed. ‘‘That’s quite something!’’ He turned and watched as Fu Sheng shoved the pistol into his belt, slithered down the knotted rope, and then stepped out onto the bridge. The rain continued to pour down, the hammering of the drops on the broad-leafed jungle foliage drowning out anything but shouted conversation. At least it had stopped the endless annoying symphony of the birds and monkeys.

  The pirate was more than halfway across the rope bridge, barely visible in the fog of rain. There was a brief sound like the buzzing of some whirring insect and an instant later Fu Sheng staggered on the rope ladder and gave a sudden cry. A foot-long sliver of bamboo magically appeared, jutting from his shoulder. Its shaft was fletched with brightly colored feathers, startling in the sheeting rain like Technicolor smears. Blood blossomed on the pirate’s chest, a darker stain against the green camouflage.

  Finn whirled, trying to see the person who’d shot the arrow. There was nothing. The attacker was invisible. Finn jumped forward, heading for the bridge, but Billy grabbed her by the arm and pulled her back.

  ‘‘Are you out of your mind!’’ he yelled. ‘‘You’ll get yourself killed!’’

  There was a second buzzing sound and an arrow tore through the foliage no more than a foot from where Billy stood. He dragged Finn down to the floor of the jungle. Winchester followed. They stared out at Fu Sheng, swinging on the ladder. Another arrow whizzed past, narrowly missing him.

  Fu Sheng reached up, grabbed the shaft of the arrow in his shoulder, and snapped it off. Obviously in terrible pain, teeth clenched, he hurled himself across the last few feet of the ladder and headed up the shallow embankment. This time Finn got to her feet and ran toward him. She managed to get one arm around his waist as another arrow came perilously close, flicking through the underbrush by her side.

  ‘‘Help me!’’ Finn said.

  Billy and Winchester surged upward, then pulled both Finn and the pirate into the relative safety of the jungle undergrowth at the foot of the big tree. Finn propped Fu Sheng against the trunk and looked at the arrow in his shoulder. Remembering her first year of anatomy in art class, she saw that the shaft had missed the chest and impacted in the deltoid, slicing through it and pushing out through his back.

  It wasn’t quite as serious as it looked. Painful, but at least it hadn’t pierced the lungs or struck any major arteries.

  Two more arrows in quick succession sliced through the leaves on Finn’s right. One of the arrows struck the trunk of the tree and skidded off.

  She pulled Fu Sheng forward to look at the exit wound. Then she reached for the arrowhead, intending to pull it out through the wound, when a bark from Winchester stopped her.

  ‘‘Don’t!’’

  ‘‘Why not?’’

  ‘‘They poison their arrows. I’ve seen them killing wild boar that way.’’

  ‘‘You’re sure?’’

  ‘‘Do you want to take the chance?’’

  ‘‘I can’t leave it in there!’’

  Fu Sheng was fading, eyes fluttering, his lips pale.

  Finn reached down, pulled out a handful of grass and leaves from the ground, and wrapped it around the sharpened end of the arrow. Grabbing firmly she pulled out the broken shaft in a single swift motion. It came out with a horrible sucking noise and Fu Sheng gasped with the pain. His eyes fluttered open and he attempted a smile.

  ‘‘Thank you, lady,’’ he whispered. One thick hand reached down to the waistband of his fatigues. He pulled out the automatic and pushed it into her hand. It felt like it weighed twenty pounds.

  ‘‘Do you have any idea how to use that?’’ Winchester asked. The weapon was an Egyptian Helwan knockoff of the 1950s-model Beretta 91. Finn remembered her friend Michael Valentine showing her how to work his big old Colt .45. She flicked off the safety and popped the fire selector to SEMI.

  ‘‘Yes, I know how to use it,’’ she said.

  ‘‘My breast pocket,’’ instructed Fu Sheng. ‘‘There are three more magazines. Ten rounds each.’’

  He’d used three shots on the group of fishermen. That meant seven shots already in the weapon and thirty more in the spare magazines. Thirty-seven rounds against two hundred natives. She had a flashing memory of the child she’d seen murdered in the Cairo slums the year before and the body of the young boy on the beach today. Knowing how to shoot a gun wasn’t the same as taking a life with it. Finn clicked the safety back on and pushed the weapon into her jeans at the hollow of her back. There were no more arrows.

  ‘‘An unlucky patrol?’’ Billy said, still keeping low, his eyes looking into the jungle. The rain began to lessen almost as quickly as it had begun. Beside Finn Fu Sheng gasped with terrible pain, sat forward with his eyes staring, and clutched at his chest with his free hand. Then he was still. Finn put her finger on the carotid artery bulging in the man’s thick neck. There was no pulse. He was dead. She looked at her watch. Whatever poison they used on their arrows had taken less than three minutes to kill him after spreading from a nonlethal wound. Something very nasty.

  ‘‘It wasn’t any patrol. They were waiting at the bridge. They must have heard the shots. They knew we had to come this way,’’ said the professor.

  Finn stared at Fu Sheng’s body, then turned to Winchester. ‘‘You know what village he was talking about?’’

  ‘‘Yes. It’s the largest of them. I’ve seen it from a distance. It has bamboo walls on three sides and the river on the other. There are two gates that I saw.’’

  ‘‘How high are these bamboo walls?’’

  ‘‘Not high. Five feet perhaps, but it’s useless to try and scale them. The tops are sharpened like that arrow.’’ He pointed to the bloody stump of the broken shaft that Finn had taken from the pirate’s shoulder. ‘‘They might even be poisoned.’’

  Finn carefully picked up the broken shaft and sniffed the point. There was nothing. She could see faint pale smears of some white, sticky substance caught in a thin crack in the bamboo. ‘‘Where do they get the poison?’’

  Winchester reach
ed out and tapped the gnarled trunk of the tree. ‘‘Right here. Cut through the bark and you get a thin kind of latex called ‘upas.’ Antiaris toxicaria, I believe. It’s a cardiac glycoside. It’s called Antiarin if I remember my botanical studies from the university. It’s quite common hereabouts.’’ He made a face. ‘‘Rather like getting a huge dose of Digitalis. It’s related to deadly nightshade. His heart exploded in his chest.’’

  ‘‘It’s thin,’’ said Finn, ‘‘and probably fairly labor intensive to harvest. It would wash off in the rain. I doubt if they use it on their palisade walls.’’

  ‘‘Doubt all you like,’’ said Winchester. ‘‘But I can assure you I won’t be joining in any attempt to scale them.’’

  ‘‘What about the waterside?’’ Billy suggested. He stared back across the stream, the way they had come.

  ‘‘Some very unpleasant creatures in that water. You’d have to swim at least three hundred yards—something I simply am not capable of doing—and then you’d find yourself right in the middle of the village. From what I saw of the place their whole life is centered on the river.’’

  Finn said, ‘‘Not capable of swimming three hundred yards?’’

  ‘‘Not capable of swimming at all,’’ said Winchester. ‘‘I never learned.’’

  Billy stared, unbelieving. ‘‘And you’re a marine biologist?’’

  ‘‘It wasn’t a requirement for my doctorate as I recall,’’ the professor answered stiffly.

  ‘‘How did you survive your ship going down?’’ Billy asked.

  ‘‘I always made sure my life jacket was within reach. The crew used to tease me about it. On the other hand I was the only one to survive.’’

  ‘‘Well, we can’t just stay here arguing,’’ said Finn. ‘‘We have to come to some sort of decision.’’

  ‘‘We should go back to the cave,’’ said Winchester. ‘‘The odds are entirely against us and thanks to our dead friend here we’ve lost the element of surprise.’’

  ‘‘I think that’s the whole point,’’ argued Finn. ‘‘They know we’re here now, both the Japanese and the natives. They’ll come looking for us, and eventually they’ll find us, one group or the other.’’

  ‘‘We don’t even know if your lost Dutchman is still alive,’’ responded the older man. ‘‘He could be dead by now and so could this Khan fellow.’’

  ‘‘There could have been other survivors from our ship,’’ said Billy. ‘‘We have to try.’’

  ‘‘And then we have to figure out a way off this island,’’ said Finn.

  ‘‘I’ve already told you,’’ said Winchester, exasperated. ‘‘It’s impossible. It can’t be done.’’

  ‘‘Yes, it can.’’ Finn stood up. The rain had stopped and the sun was shining down hotly again. Warm mist began to rise. ‘‘There’s a way. There has to be.’’

  24

  They reached the ridge that marked the summit of the Punchbowl by the middle of the afternoon and found the river an hour after that. They climbed down through the jungle forest, following the river course, the broad expanse of the sea far below occasionally visible through the trees. In another time the hike might have been idyllic, a nature lover’s dream of exotic plants, birds, and wildlife. As it was, each step was bringing them closer and closer to a confrontation none of them wanted.

  ‘‘This may well turn out to be a fool’s errand,’’ Winchester grumbled as they threaded their way down a steep jungle trail beside the river. ‘‘Your Dutch uncle or whoever he is may be long dead and there’s no guarantee that the natives captured anyone else.’’

  ‘‘What about Fu Sheng’s friend?’’ said Finn. ‘‘Are we just supposed to abandon him?’’

  ‘‘Survival of the fittest if you ask me,’’ said Winchester. ‘‘He means nothing to me.’’

  ‘‘He saved your life,’’ said Billy harshly.

  ‘‘And now I’m supposed to sacrifice mine?’’ Winchester scoffed. ‘‘This isn’t some remake of Beau Geste, my young friend. This is the real world we’re living in. I’ve managed to survive here for three years by keeping a low profile, not charging after faint hopes.’’ He shook his head and poked his long bamboo staff into the dirt. ‘‘We should be back in my cave worrying about filling our bellies with food, not poisoned arrows.’’

  ‘‘Look,’’ said Finn, exasperated. ‘‘At the very least, we have to see what we’re up against. I’d like to do it before it gets too dark to see my hand in front of my face. I don’t think any of us want to be out in the open when it gets dark.’’ She continued on, picking her way along the path, still slick and muddy from the rain. By her calculations and rough line-of-sight bearings, they’d circled halfway back toward the cave.

  By cutting directly cross-country, they’d run into the ridge above the valley with an hour or two of hard hiking. That left them with an hour of daylight to check out the native village and formulate some sort of plan. She tried not to look at Winchester or Billy. So far she was talking a good line, but she didn’t really believe any of it. She was out of her depth, exhausted, and afraid.

  Her mind wandered for a moment and she suddenly had a sharp, vivid memory of the onion rings at Pick More Daisies in Crouch End. If Lord Billy and Willem Van Boegart hadn’t come into her life, she could be sitting in her flat chowing down on a sloppy Joe with a side of rings and fries right this minute, watching reruns of The X Factor on her unlicensed and illegal television.

  That and a glass of cheap red wine plonk from Emir’s shop across the way would be just about perfect right now. Instead she was hiking through a steaming jungle on a desert island in the middle of the South Pacific and wondering if the faint tickling sensation she could feel on the back of her right leg was a giant, bloated, bloodsucking leech or just a very large mosquito drinking her dry. She silently vowed to herself that if she got out of this mess alive, her adventuring days would be over. So far the only good thing that had happened was not stepping on some horribly venomous snake.

  ‘‘Give it time,’’ she muttered to herself.

  ‘‘Pardon?’’ Billy asked politely, walking just behind her.

  ‘‘Nothing.’’ She reached down and slapped the back of her leg, then kept on walking, the phantom aroma of onion rings in her nostrils.

  They reached the outskirts of the village as dusk began to fall. From a mile upstream the first signs were clear: a fish trap set into the fast-flowing water. The trap was made of closely woven strips of bamboo, the pattern close enough to capture fish of a useful size yet open enough to let out the immature fingerlings; a clever, natural method of environmental control. On the nearby rocks was evidence that fish had been gutted and skinned, and farther down they found a small hut raised on bamboo stilts and fitted with closely packed, oily racks that smelled strongly of wood smoke.

  At that point they headed inland away from the riverbank, moving slowly through the thinning jungle, carefully watching and listening. More and more they saw evidence of human occupation: small patches of cultivation, felled trees, another smokehouse, and well-trodden trails that intersected on the forest floor. They even found a fruit rind from somebody’s casual snack tossed into the undergrowth beside the trail. And they saw smoke, then smelled it. Cooking fires. Eventually the jungle thinned absolutely and they saw a broad, cleared perimeter of dark earth and a densely built wall of bamboo, the broad stakes sharpened at the top and held together by thick rattan ropes. Beyond the palisade they could just make out an assembly of high-pitched roofs, thatched in heavy layers of some kind of bunched, split-cane bundles. They squatted at the edge of the jungle and looked out across the clearing. There were no signs of any panic or activity. They could hear faint sounds, a hollow hammering of a mallet, laughter, childish squeals of pleasure, and the high-pitched commands of a mother to her child. There was no doubt that the language was Chinese of some sort, a harsh, almost guttural dialect completely unlike the singsong music of Malay or Philippino Tagalog.

  �
�‘Now what?’’ Billy said, looking out across the clearing.

  To the right of the enclosing, the fortlike palisade was nothing but jungle. To the left they could see how the land led down to the river. Outside the wall they could see some sort of rough dock and several long, canoe-shaped dugouts, each one apparently created from a single log. One of them was made out of two immense tree trunks bound together by a complex web of bamboo poles making a catamaran. This vessel was also equipped with a central mast and a dark brown sail bundled closely into a heavy fanlike shape. The furled sail of a junk. The sail was made from some sort of pounded vegetable fiber and reinforced by dozens of thin bamboo strips. Beneath the mast and between the dugouts was a large platform made from more bound bamboo poles. Powered by the sail or by at least two dozen paddlers, the whole contraption looked as though it could easily carry thirty or forty passengers, or warriors.

  ‘‘Is that the war canoe you were talking about?’’ Finn whispered.

  Winchester nodded. ‘‘Yes. Except it was fitted out with some kind of big throne at the stern end. That’s not there now.’’

  ‘‘You’d think a great bugger of a thing like that could get through the reefs,’’ said Billy.

  ‘‘Just what I was thinking,’’ said Finn. ‘‘But then again perhaps they didn’t want to leave. Maybe they liked it here and decided to stay. We’ll never know.’’

  ‘‘I must say they don’t seem too worried about us,’’ commented the professor. I don’t see any guards and we didn’t run into anyone except that archer by the rope bridge.’’

  ‘‘Why worry?’’ Billy said. ‘‘We’re kind of a captive audience, don’t you think? And they know it.’’

  Winchester turned fidgety. He looked over his shoulder, frowning, then up at the darkening sky. ‘‘It’s getting on,’’ he said. ‘‘We should be on our way. We’ve seen the place.’’

  ‘‘I want to get inside,’’ said Finn.

  ‘‘Don’t be a mad fool!’’ Winchester sputtered. ‘‘You can’t be serious!’’