Black Buddha

by Richard Waters

  The Cessna sailed over the sea of treetops and climbed up the afternoon sky, Jones at the controls, Jacques nursing his headache. ‘How many pipes they make you smoke this time?’ he laughed,

  ‘I lost count. Merde! Knowles wants me to go after Carabas.’

  Jones’ Haitian face paled. ‘Shit.’

  As they disappeared into a pocket of mist, the opium in his veins pulsing weakly, Jacques thought of his week with Penelope the month before. He’d waited for her at Bangkok airport in a blue linen suit he’d had tailored in Vientiane. Her skin looked pale as porcelain in the Thai sunlight, her hair neatly arranged in a bun on her head. They spent their first night in a suite at the Hilton, the city crawling with drunken marines on R and R. He didn’t want her to see them lest she associate their whores with his own spare time. That first night they ate lobster from Krabi at the Oriental hotel and went to bed early. After they made love, the two of them wrapped around one another as if in fear one of them might disappear, they stared up at the revolutions of the fan.

  ‘I’m not using protection.’ she’d said.

  ‘I don’t care.’

  The Americans could fight their own war… he was leaving. Everything he needed was beside him; her soft touch, the eccentric pull of her humour, her long sad face and blue eyes. ‘I’m coming home, Penelope.’

  ‘To France.’

  ‘No, to you. Wherever I am with you, that’s home.’

  Thanks to his regular pay cheque, and it was a good one, they had enough saved in a joint bank account to buy a modest house almost outright. It was decided she’d return to England and find them a property in London, while he’d prematurely extricate himself from his responsibilities here.

  She ran her toes along his shin, ‘Do you think we’ll have a girl or a boy?’

  The lights of the city painted the walls exotically through the window blinds. ‘I think it’ll be a boy and he’s going to have a left hook like Hercules.’

  The next day they took an army jeep to a small island near the Cambodian border, the locals called it Kop Chang. A fishing boat took them across the green water and deposited them on a deserted beach. She watched in the shade of a coconut tree as he deftly rigged up a hammock and erected a tent from a tarpaulin. That night they watched the azure drain from the sky and plankton light up the colour of sapphires in the shallows. Penelope clapped her hands and ran naked into the water, the glowing bacteria dancing on her swimmer’s limbs. Still covered in the stuff they lay on the beach listening to the surf and made love again.

  It was Penelope who woke first, she pinched Jacques on the arm to rouse him. ‘Psst!’ she whispered, ‘there’s a light in the bay.’

  ‘It’s probably squid fisherman. They fish at night. Go back to sleep, cheri.’ he groaned. But the light came closer. Self-consciously they covered themselves with sarongs and sat up in the hammock. A chill mist had gathered across the water. Jacques waved but there was no response from the figure at the helm of the boat. It stood there watching them. ‘Just another fisherman, Penny, let’s get some sleep.’

  That night he slept with one eye open in range of his pistol. It couldn’t be him.

  - 29 -

  Three-thirty a.m, I couldn’t have slept if I’d wanted for the shrill of cicadas and caterwaul of monkeys, plus another series of sounds I couldn’t get a handle on; it sounded like pigs snuffling for truffles. I couldn’t see a thing but my sense of smell and hearing had intensified. In the last hour I’d had a panic attack with such severe rigours I thought I was going to die, and when I closed my eyes to keep it at bay all I could see was a million blood capillaries rushing towards me beneath my eyelids. Then something distracted me from my self-obsession.

  Footsteps drew closer. I tried to imagine where they were coming from, what the terrain was like at ground zero. I needed to scream, but that was exactly what they wanted, my terror decanted in a little box in the ground so I’d be forced to give them the map and key. The footsteps stopped just a few feet short of the trap-lid,

  ‘Hello eagle eyes.’ Then I heard James walk away.

  I should have known there was something wrong with him, maybe I’d been too wrapped up in my troubles to realise the Jai-Dam had people of all colours in their secret society. No wonder he’d known so much that night of his exposition in the guesthouse. I tried to remember what I might have let slip to him. Nothing, I was sure.

  Five minutes later more footsteps, two sets of them, and with a little concentration I could actually pick out the softer, lighter step. Someone was whispering, I couldn’t pick up the thread of the conversation, only that my heart felt a brief ache as I heard her voice. ‘Maybe we should give him some water, we need him alive.’ Did I detect some small shred of humanity or was she just protecting her cargo? Perhaps after her immaculate deception, she had some pride in her work, and ergo, me.

  ‘No, let him rot a little… Besides, he’s strong, he’ll make it.’

  ‘They’re coming toward us, we should move up into the trees.’

  Hurriedly, they doused the area above me with something tossed from a bucket; some of it leaked through the struts and landed on my dry lips. I thirsted as if I hadn’t had a drink in days; it felt like a benediction. I licked at it eagerly then retched as I realised I was swallowing blood. I didn’t have time to wonder whose blood, I started screaming and pushing frantically at the lid. Then the reek of rotten flesh reached into my grave as something heavy moved on top of me, a primordial stench so foul I had to hold my breath or puke. It uttered a hiss as it shifted its bulk and began clawing away at the bamboo… certainly not a pig. Whatever it was it was powerful as hell, the feeble door was denting. It was after the blood source.

  More of them gathering, low-slung bodies dragging close to the earth. I was squirming around wondering what the hell they were and thinking about the half-eaten remains of the tribe kids, when a voice spoke articulately from high in the treetops; powerful, like a stage actor’s voice. ‘In another couple of minutes they’ll be through the trapdoor then you’re dogmeat. Tell us where the map and key is, Alain? Tell us, and you’re free to leave.’ An American.

  ‘Fuck you!’ I shouted. I lay still, defiantly fighting a fresh panic attack.

  4am, the first shards of light leaking through the tightly bound struts. I could see skin the shade of elephant hide, a huge snout and talon-like claws tearing at the bamboo… the sound of laboured breath, a flickering tongue. I tried to scream but a thin rasp was all that I could muster. Then providence struck when I least expected her as they set upon one another in frenzy. The light came through again; maybe this was my only window. For all I was worth I kicked with my legs. They were weak, the muscles flaccid with the afterburn of heroin, but it was just enough.

  Then I was pulling myself up onto sodden earth, blinking at the dawn light and the huge long-tailed creatures locked in contention beside me. I was somewhere in the mountains, the air chill on my skin. I screamed, blundered past half a dozen creatures, noticed we were in a clearing and then felt my legs staggering to the still-dark treeline. I heard shouting in the treetops, the heavy movement of the things behind as they stopped and scudded after me… the screaming of monkeys as I broke through the foliage.

  I ran in the easiest direction – downhill, passing an old Khmer looking ruins and what looked like cages within their dark interior. Maybe I saw people or more dragons in them, I didn’t care, I just knew I hated the Blackhearts so much I wanted to defy them with my escape. Then I noticed the kids in the trees watching me, though this time I knew I wasn’t stoned, my mind was sharp as a blade. But they made no move to follow; instead they sat with glazed eyes looking down dispassionately. High above them in the canopy were wooden platforms and treehouses connected by wooden via ferrata. My arms and legs were sliced in thorns and the spiky leaves of traveller palms as I lurched on through semi-darkness, patche
s of ruby dawn washing through gaps in the treetops. Then I lost my footing, keeled over on my left ankle with my full weight and fell for an eternity down a hill.

  I landed in a stunned heap, my ankle throbbing, badly swollen. I lay there a while - perhaps a minute, my brain groping blindly for its next move. What’s the fight plan, Ped?

  I heard the subtle sound of flowing water, got to my feet for the count and staggered toward it, the ground flattening out to bullrushes and pandanus the height of my waist.

  In another ten minutes they’ll be through the wood, then you’re dog-meat.

  ‘I’m not dog-meat, you fucker… I’m still alive.’ I mumbled, as I plunged into the river, limply casting myself toward its centre to carry me away. Full of post-monsoon muscle, it moved quickly, taking my aches and fears in its slick expanse, shouldering me in its urgency as we rushed beneath a hollow of figs, eucalyptus and creepers.

  I grabbed hold of a floating log, too tired to move on my own. If they were waiting for me, I couldn’t fight them. Perhaps this is how it ended for Jacques, I wondered, my body tossed from one current to the next with the malleability of a ragdoll; had he too been overpowered by the Jai-Dam’s numbers and the inexorable grip of the jungle? I passed out.

  Later - almost three hours according to my watch - I woke to the sound of flowing water and brilliant light. I still had hold of my trusty log. My legs were weightless and floating behind me, my ankle pulsing. I turned around and saw the larger mountains receding into the background faint as pastel shades, but there it was just as it had been rendered on the map; the pyramidal bitch of a mountain standing clear and superior to the mist-crowned peaks around it. Black Dragon Mountain, the mountain my father had left me in his cryptic legacy.

  Log and man drifted on through clay-brown water, reality flooding back in absurd, prosaic considerations; maybe the credit cards in my wallet could be dried in the sun… how could I order some more in the middle of nowhere? How would I get out of Laos? To the north China, but that was a long way away, as was Vietnam to the east.

  The jungle deferred to foothills and valley-country, we were flowing through a fertile plain, the river widening and picking up pace. In the distance its banks were flanked by glimmering padi and women bent-double washing clothes in the shallows. High above them reflecting the glare of the sun, I saw the first golden wings merge together to form the roof of a temple. Then another. I felt as if I’d arrived in Shangri La.

  The sound of a gong banging against a drum echoed down the treetops and across the valley; the closer I drew the more temples seemed to peek from the green hill above. And then I saw a couple of farangs on the riverbank wheeling along on a bike, happy as sandboys.

  I sat on the bank and waited for my clothes to dry on a boulder. Despite my ordeal I wasn’t in bad shape - a few scratches, some yellow bruising around my arm where the hypodermic had entered, and a badly swollen ankle. But on the whole I was fine. My travellers cheques and money had disintegrated, my credit cards were unusable and I didn’t have a clue what happened to my passport.

  As far as the Jai-Dam was concerned, I probably wasn’t going anywhere, they knew exactly where the river flowed. Who knows, perhaps it was part of the plan to let me escape. Somehow I doubted this, pouring blood into a hole secured by a feeble bamboo door while reptilian carnivores tried to get in, didn’t sound like they had any intention to save me.

  Wherever I was I needed somewhere to hide while I figured my options. I waited till I was dry, then limped past the washerwomen up some steps that led to the temples and villas on the street far above. As I passed them, they paused at their work and smiled.

  ‘Sabaidee,’ I said with a wai, ‘Can you tell me where this is?’

  One of them put her hands on her waist and brushed the sweat from her forehead. ‘Luang Prabang.’ She said.

  The air was touched with the smell of baking bread, frangipani trees flowered at every turn and the streets were immaculately clean, expensive shops and boutique hotels fighting for real estate. It was exquisite, but more to the point, it was full of westerners - and an airport. I wandered down a palm-fringed street pausing to allow space for a trail of young monks. They smiled serenely, gliding by like saffron ghosts. Everywhere there seemed to be temples tiled in gold and silver murals, and perfectly preserved Indochinese villas with shuttered windows fronted by mango trees. It was almost too perfect, like something from a Merchant Ivory film.

  I noticed a couple of farangs pass by on a tuk-tuk, plus a middle-age couple walking by who looked like they were dressed for a package holiday. For the first time in days I smelt escape. Then a little man no more than four feet tall with a bright red neck-tie and comical shrewish face popped up and asked if I needed to change any money. I told him I had none but asked if he know Nathan Moore?

  ‘Farang?’

  ‘Yes, he’s a farang, do you know him?’

  He scratched his grey head and thinned his eyes against the sun, ‘Nathan Moore? Journalist yes? Crazee!’

  My heart beat a little quicker, ‘Yes.’

  ‘He live in gallery around corner near sauna, you like sauna?’

  But I was already searching the distance for a building that looked like a gallery. ‘Can you show me?’

  I reckon he must have been about ninety but someone had forgotten to tell him. He squeezed my arm and rocked away, checking behind to see if I was following. ‘You have been in Luang Prabang long?’

  ‘I just arrived.’

  ‘By boat?’

  ‘By log.’

  He pointed to my ankle as I half-hopped beside him. ‘You fall off log!’

  The midget led the way down a street of villas, the sun tracing cracks in their mortar like lines on an old woman’s face. There were yet more temples and outside every one seemed to be a set of sentinel dragons, plus plenty of middle-aged westerners with cameras and guidebooks under their arms. As we passed the doorway of a shopfront, I noticed a supine crone with sagging skin drained of pigment. At the entrance to her shop fluttered a communist flag.

  ‘Here we are,’ he said, stopping outside a faded teak building. ‘In there journalist. You change money now?’ He saluted and rocked away in his cheque shirt and necktie.

  I knocked on the door but no one answered. On the fourth knock I felt panic rising in my guts and wondered if there was anywhere in Moore’s back garden that I could hide till he got back. Then I heard a voice, ‘I’m coming… hold on a minute.’

  The door opened, a keen set of brown eyes and beaky nose greeted me. ‘Can I help you?’ he said in a London accent, his eyes conducting a rapid audit.

  ‘Are you Nathan?’ He nodded. ‘I’m Alain Deschamps, I was hoping we might talk.’

  His green pyjamas were covered with specks of blue and white paint, his hair shaved close to his head. He reminded me of a stork, such was the precision of his movements and chiselled features. ‘Sure, how can I help?’ he said, looking at the track mark on the inside of my forearm.

  ‘It’s about the article you wrote, about the Hmong children disappearing…’

  ‘What about them?’ he said.

  ‘I know about it,’ I covered my forearm self-consciously. ‘Please, let me in…I’ve got a story that will interest you.’

  Maybe he thought it would help him sell another article, maybe he had a heart. Looking back I’d like to believe it was the latter. When he looked undecided I said, ‘Look, I’m desperate, just give me a minute to explain.’

  He rubbed his eyes and waved me in. I could smell alcohol about his person. ‘You look like you could use a coffee.’

  The studio downstairs was open-plan and full of paintings; some of them rendered in gold and bronze colours, portraits of Buddha; watercolours of Luang Prabang. Then I noticed a series of oils depicting the mountain shaped like a shark’s tooth and pointed to it.
‘That’s where I spent the night.’

  He looked at me incredulously. ‘Black Dragon Mountain?’ he said, raising an eyebrow and bolting the door.

  ‘In a hole in the ground, halfway up I think. I don’t remember much, they put something in me so it’s a bit of a blur.’ I showed him the hole in my arm. His eyes thinned and he nodded slightly but said nothing, waiting for me to continue.

  ‘My friends were murdered in a guesthouse in Vang Vieng, that’s where they took me from.’ I remembered the smell of cleaning chemicals, the figures darting about the room with bundled red sheets,

  ‘Murdered?’ he said,

  ‘Has it been in the paper, the Vientiane Times? An Englishman and two Swedes - Sean, Zig and Kristen… I don’t know their surnames.’

  He shook his head, ‘No nothing. Why are you here?’ he said, sensing trouble, ‘I mean, how can I help?’

  ‘I heard about your article in Vientiane, I spoke to the Sub there and he told me to look you up.’

  Moore stopped pouring the coffee, ‘You spoke to my pal, Ed and he told you?’

  ‘He trusted me as a fellow journalist.’

  ‘Bloody hell, a journalist is the last person you should trust.’ He walked over, grabbed a stool and sat me down on it. ‘It’s half past seven in the morning but I reckon you can handle a bit of the hard stuff… your hand’s shaking like a bastard.’ He noticed me resting all my weight on my left foot, ‘You look like you’ve broken your ankle too.’

  Moore disappeared mercurially, returning a moment later with a quart of Thai whiskey and a pack of Anadin. I watched him pour the whiskey into a shot glass and light a cigarette, he handed them both to me and crouched down on his haunches, ‘Ok, Alain. It is Alain you say?’