“Don’t get me wrong,” Mina said. “I’m all for it. But we don’t know that the Spirit Well is the great treasure Cosimo and Sir Henry were looking for. It might be something else, something even bigger. In any case, it won’t hurt to spend a few minutes copying the symbols.”
“So we’ll stop off on the way and make a copy. No problem.”
Wilhelmina nodded. “Do you think Arthur Flinders-Petrie was really there?”
“He must have been. How else did those marks get on the wall of that cave?” said Kit. “Either our old buddy Arthur was there and drew them himself, or somebody copied them off his skin.”
“We still don’t know how to read them,” Wilhelmina pointed out.
“True,” agreed Kit. “But we may not need them anymore.”
They talked a little longer, and then Wilhelmina went in to make some more coffee. She was just pouring the first cups when Brother Lazarus returned with the news that he had been granted leave to accompany Wilhelmina and Kit down the mountain to explore the cave.
“How soon can we leave?” asked Mina.
“As soon as we have gathered the necessary supplies and equipment,” replied the priest.
Wilhelmina translated for Kit, who observed, “We don’t need all that much equipment. How long will it take to gather a few torches, some rope, and some drawing paper and pencils?” He thought for a moment, then added, “Can Brother Lazarus get his hands on a camera of any kind? We would need a flash too.”
Mina and Lazarus exchanged a word. “He says he thinks Brother Michael at the library might have a camera we can borrow. The rest of the equipment shouldn’t take more than a couple hours to scrape together. What kind of weapon are we looking for?”
Kit considered this. “Nothing fancy. A hunting rifle—something like that.”
Mina spoke to Brother Lazarus, then said, “We won’t be able to get our hands on one of those at the monastery.”
“Then we can try in the town,” said Kit. He stretched and stood.
“It’s nearly eleven,” Mina told him. “I’ve got prayers in an hour, and I am in charge of setting out the service books for vespers this evening.”
Kit regarded her with a quizzical look. “What are you saying, Wilhelmina? Are you really a nun?”
“No,” she said, dismissing the comment with a laugh. “But I do try to fit in while I’m here. I have duties.” She rose and faced Kit. “That said, I do find the daily office very meaningful. I don’t like to miss it.”
“Okay, but—”
“Listen, let’s take the rest of the day, get all the gear together, and then set out tomorrow morning after Matins and breakfast—how’s that?”
“Well, if you insist . . .”
“A day of rest won’t hurt you.” She smiled. “And you can use the time to get to know Brother Lazarus better.”
“Fine,” agreed Kit, regarding the smiling cleric. “As you know, my Spanish and Italian are every bit as good as my German. We’ll have a ball.”
CHAPTER 31
In Which a Familial Connection Is Forged
The journey to China had proved a trial of patience and endurance. Schooners, however luxurious—and they were rarely that—might be strong and reliable, but they were slow. Even the swiftest of the new clipper ships took six months or more to reach Hong Kong from Portsmouth, and there was no faster way to make the journey. At least there was no faster way Charles Flinders-Petrie had ever found. Grandfather Arthur might have discovered a ley line connecting Britain to China, but if he had, that was yet another secret he failed to pass along to anyone. The monumental inconvenience of sea travel was one of the main reasons Charles had never made the journey, and the only reason he was making it now was that cruel necessity had forced him from his beloved London garden.
Now, as the humped back of Hong Kong island slid into view beneath the low clouds hanging over the harbour, it was all Charles could do to refrain from leaping into the sea and swimming the rest of the way to shore. The ship made port a few hours later, and by midday Charles was picking his slow way up the dusty steeps of Wah Fu Road, looking for the house of Xian-Li’s sister. Having shunned the clamour of rickshaw drivers at the harbour for the pleasure of feeling solid ground beneath his feet after so many weeks aboard ship, he was enjoying his exotic surroundings as much as the physical exertion was making him sweat.
At the top of the hill he stopped and looked about him. The houses in the neighbourhood were oddly out of place—rambling English-style wooden bungalows with steep roofs, deep eaves, and large wraparound porches—built as they were by European businessmen and bureaucrats for families accustomed to suburban sprawl. They were painted white with red trim, and as a concession to climate and decorum, most of the porches and windows were screened with woven bamboo shades. He had never met Hana-Li, but he had the number of the house and, as the widow of a notable government official, she was well known.
When he had caught his breath he continued on, entering a wide tree-lined boulevard where the houses were larger and set back from the road by green lawns strewn with flower beds and ornamental shrubs tended by barefoot gardeners wearing wide straw hats. At last he came to an iron post at the end of a winding driveway. The post bore a sign with the number forty-three painted in gold. He stood for a moment and gazed at the rambling house, wondering whether he would find a welcome within. There was only one way to find out.
Charles walked up the drive and mounted the steps to the porch. There was a bell pull beside the door, which he employed, once and then again, and waited until he heard the quick patter of sandals on the other side of the heavy wooden door. It opened to reveal a sprightly young girl with long black hair, robed in a plain white shift, with simple sea grass slippers on her feet.
“Hello,” said Charles with a smile. “I have come to see Hana-Li. Is she at home?”
If his words made an impression on the girl, she did not show it.
“Do you speak English?” asked Charles.
The girl frowned, then turned away abruptly and pattered off, leaving the door open. Charles stood on the threshold gazing into the dark interior of a spacious vestibule lined with standing porcelain pots in green and blue. He patted the parcel beneath his shirt and waited.
In a moment an old woman appeared. Her dove-grey hair was bound in a topknot beneath which a round face, wrinkled as a walnut, expressed a mild curiosity at what had fetched up on the doorstep. Her robe was threadbare and faded, and she carried a dusting cloth in one hand. Taking her for the housekeeper, Charles replied, “I have come to see Hana-Li. Is the lady at home?”
“She is at home,” answered the woman in careful colonial English with a whistling lisp. “Who wishes to see her?”
“My name is Charles Flinders-Petrie,” he said. “I am the honourable lady’s great-nephew.”
“Nephew?” wondered the old woman.
Charles offered a reassuring smile. “My grandmother, Xian-Li, was her sister,” he explained. “She is my great-aunt.”
The woman paused to consider this, her quick dark eyes wary of this bold gaijin stranger.
Charles grew uncomfortable under this scrutiny. “Does Hana-Li live here?” he asked finally. “May I see her?”
As if making up her mind about him, the old woman opened the door and stepped aside. “Please, come in.”
“Thank you.” Charles entered the foyer. The room was dark; a red silk rug carpeted the floor, and two potted palms stood at the doorway into the sitting room.
The old woman gestured toward the second room. “Sit down, please,” she instructed.
From among the chairs available, Charles chose a low-seated rattan model with a red silk cushion. The old woman remained standing in the doorway, studying him as Charles settled himself.
“You like tea?”
“Yes, indeed,” said Charles. “I do like a nice cup of tea.”
The elderly housekeeper nodded and disappeared into the house. Left alone, Charles gazed ar
ound the room. It was light and airy, if cluttered with knickknacks of various kinds large and small—the accumulation, no doubt, of a life in government service. What sort of official Hana-Li’s husband had been, Charles did not know—only that he had been involved with the British Board of Trade at some time in the past. He wondered why, after her husband had died, his great-aunt had not moved back to Macau.
Presently the old woman returned with a porcelain pot and two shallow cups and a plate of sugared almonds on a teak tray. “You are far from home,” she said.
“Yes, I have come a long way to see Hana-Li,” he replied. “Is she coming soon, do you think?”
The woman bunched her wrinkled cheeks. “Yes, very soon.” She placed the tray on a table and began pouring it out. She handed Charles a cup and then offered the plate of almonds.
“Thank you,” said Charles, selecting a few of the sweets.
“I am sister of Xian-Li,” announced the woman, taking a seat in the chair opposite. “My name is Hana-Li.” She offered a broad, gap-toothed smile, enjoying her little jest at his expense. “Hello, great-nephew.”
Charles sat up so quickly, he almost spilled his tea. “Oh, I am sorry!” he blurted. “I took you for the housekeeper.”
She laughed. “I know. Little Tam-Ling is housekeeper.”
“Please, forgive me.”
She batted away the apology. “You honour me with your presence, nephew.”
Charles made a little bow. “The honour is mine, dear aunt.”
“Did you know my sister?”
“Indeed I did,” replied Charles, remembering. “When I was a little boy, she used to let me feed the chickens on the farm. She was always very proper.”
Hana-Li nodded over her tea. “Did she have a happy life?”
“Yes, very happy—quiet, but happy, I think. She was a joy to all who met her.”
Hana-Li laughed. “You would not say that if you knew her when she was young. She used to pull my hair and scream like a monkey when we fought.” She laughed again. “And we were always fighting.”
“I brought you something,” said Charles, standing up. He fished in the pocket of his jacket and brought out a small parcel wrapped in blue paper. “I thought you might like this.”
The old woman took the present, unwrapped it, and opened the box to reveal a jade brooch skillfully carved to resemble a lotus flower. “Oh!” exclaimed Hana-Li. Tears came to her eyes.
“Do you like it?”
She swallowed hard. “Do you know what this is?”
“Xian-Li wore it often. I expect it was her favourite piece.”
“It was our mother’s favourite too,” explained Hana-Li, dabbing at her eyes. “We were very young when she died, and we were very poor. We had almost nothing from her—but this brooch and a few other small things. Father gave it to Xian-Li when she was married.”
“Then I am glad I could return it to you.”
“Do you have children?”
“A son. He is grown now. No daughters.”
Hana-Li held out the box. “Give it to him to give to his daughter when the time comes.”
Charles shook his head lightly. “That is a kindly thought. But I think it means more to you than it ever will to him. I insist you keep it.”
“Thank you,” she sighed. “You make an old woman very happy.”
“I have something else for you,” he said. “Excuse me a moment.” He turned away and unbuttoned the top three buttons of his shirt to withdraw a cylindrical parcel no bigger than the palm of his hand. It was wrapped in fine suede leather and bound with a leather strap of the same material. He buttoned his shirt and turned, offering the package to his aged relative. “This is also very precious, but for a different reason,” he said.
Hana-Li took it and regarded the green suede bundle curiously.
“You may open it,” he instructed, “and I will explain.”
The old woman gently closed the box containing the brooch and set it on the table beside her chair. Her wrinkled fingers worked at the leather lace and in a moment had unwrapped the package to reveal a tightly wound scroll of semi-translucent parchment. She gently unrolled the scrap and spread it on her lap, her eyes playing over the oddly ornamented surface—a spray of fine blue swirls and lines and tiny dots. She lifted the thin, papery material and held it up against the light from the window to study the richly patterned design more closely.
“Have you seen anything like this before?” asked Charles after a moment.
“These are tattaus,” she said. “I have seen them many times, as you must surely know, for my father was a tattau maker.”
Charles nodded. “And you know that he created many tattoos— tattaus—for my grandfather, Arthur.”
The old woman held the parchment across her palms. “That is true. He would have come many times to have his tattaus made. But I met your grandfather only once—when he came to take Xian-Li for his wife. After that, we never saw them again.”
“What you hold is a parchment made from Arthur’s skin,” Charles explained, placing his hand reverently on the map.
The old woman’s mouth formed a perfect O of wonder.
“It was made to preserve the marks you see on its surface, and it has been in our family for many, many years.”
Charles went on to tell her how his father, Benedict—then only a young boy—had tried to secure a copy of the special map when Arthur had died unexpectedly while on one of their travels. The parchment had been made by well-meaning priests in order to preserve the map. “It has been in the family ever since,” concluded Charles. “It has proven its worth many times over.”
The old woman nodded, uncertain what to make of this revelation. “Why do you wish me to have it?”
“What you hold in your hands is but one small piece of a larger map. I have divided it up into sections, and I bring this portion to you for safekeeping.”
“Why me?”
“Because you are the only surviving member of my grandmother’s family,” Charles replied. “And because no one will ever think to search for it here.” He smiled. “No one knows about you, Hana-Li, but me.”
She rolled the scroll once more and rewound it in its leather wrap, then handed it back to Charles. “I will think about it.”
“Very well,” he agreed, but made no move to take the map from her. “Whatever you think best.”
“You will stay here with me, and I will tell cook that tonight we celebrate the good fortune of your arrival,” she said lightly. “We will eat together, and you will tell me stories of my sister’s life in England.”
“I would be delighted.”
The old woman rose and crossed the room. She lifted a tiny brass bell from a table and rang. Tam-Ling appeared, and the two exchanged a brief word. “She will take you to the guest room, where you can rest from your journey. I will have hot water brought to you.”
“You are most thoughtful, Aunt,” he said. Taking her hands in his, he pressed them, and added, “I knew that coming here was the right thing to do.”
They enjoyed a sumptuous dinner together, and while Tam-Ling ferried various dishes from the kitchen to the table, Charles regaled his aged relative with stories remembered from his childhood and other family stories passed down through the years: tales of Arthur’s daring travel exploits; his mother’s winsome, slightly otherworldly ways; his and his father’s childhood memories of the farm and country life in rural Oxfordshire; and much else. Hana-Li relished the tales, clapping her hands with pleasure from time to time as a particular story unfolded; she added her own recollections of her and her sister’s childhood growing up in Macau. The two went to bed that night sated in body and soul.
Charles arose the next morning to a light rain pattering on the roof tiles; he dressed and went downstairs to find his great-aunt waiting for him in the sitting room. She had the leather roll in her lap and was gazing at it intently. He greeted her with a kiss and then, as she clearly had something on her mind, he stood
and waited for her to begin.
“I have been thinking,” she said, still gazing at the bundle on her lap. “I am a very old woman, and I will not live many more years.”
“You are the very picture of health—”
She raised a hand and cut off his objection. “No, it is true. Therefore, I am not prepared to accept this duty.” Before Charles could interrupt, she continued. “However, I understand your desire to keep this . . . ” She hesitated. “This remnant safe and secure.” She raised her eyes to Charles for the first time. “I have a proposal to make to you.”
“I am eager to hear it.”
“I want you to take me to Macau,” she said. “It is many years since I visited my home, and I should like to see it again before I die. There is an old family shrine outside the city—my father’s and mother’s ashes are there. We will visit the shrine and there, I think, you will find a place to keep this”—she lowered her eyes to the object on her lap—“in all safety.”
Charles considered this for a moment. “A splendid idea, Aunt. I think you have devised the perfect solution.” Indeed, hiding the pieces in tombs and shrines seemed not only appropriate but inspired. He stooped near and gave her a kiss on the cheek. “It would be my pleasure to escort you to Macau to visit the family shrine. We could also see the old tattoo shop if you would like—I know I would.”
“Then I will make arrangements,” replied Hana-Li. She took the parcel and offered it to him once more. “We will visit the shrine first, and you will place this inside.”
Charles made a little bow and accepted the leather-wrapped scroll. Holding it on the palm of his hand, he said, “That will be a most fitting resting place for this particular piece of family history.”
CHAPTER 32
In Which the Newest Member Is Fêted
Chairs had been set up in a neat semi-circle in the genizah to accommodate the small but select group. The centre of the big room had been cleared for the special meeting at which Cassandra Clarke was to be inducted into the Zetetic Society, becoming its newest, and youngest, member. In point of fact, she would become its first new member for over a hundred and twenty-five years—a detail she would have found astonishing, but wholly in keeping with the odd group she was still struggling to embrace.
The Spirit Well (Bright Empires) Page 29