by Mike Miller
“Depends,” responded Conrad. “It’s good at getting rid of the good, I’ll tell you that.” Conrad sucked off another puff of his own smoke. “And I suppose the bad too. Everything. The opium takes it all away, sends it off into the ether, and leaves you with a big empty hole inside by the time it’s through. That’s not my kind of girl.”
Gregory reflected on the assessment while surveying the group. The circle of men had relaxed into a chorus of friendly talk, some even laughing playfully. “Doesn’t seem so bad to me.”
Conrad debated whether it was worth his time to respond. “Not yet, not now. But in time you’ll see.”
One of the huddled men wrapped in garb broke ranks from the perimeter. The figure began to waddle up the side of the hill towards Conrad and Gregory. Carefully held in both hands before him was the pipe with its mouthpiece extended forward, searching for a new home to suckle it. The jaunty shuffle revealed the man’s identity before the raspy voice could. “Any of you want a smoke?” asked Douglas, his throat croaking out a tiny cough as it struggled to finish the sentence.
The firm granite of Conrad’s face instantly communicated his answer. “Are you sure, Mister Murray?” Douglas growled in a lower tone.
“I am good, sir,” Conrad responded.
Douglas turned his attention to the boy before the menacing and accusing eyes of his grumpy old friend could further annoy him. “And you, sir?” The manner in which the covered mitts of Douglas held the opium pipe before Gregory was like a gift.
Between the two men, the separate forces strained upon Gregory to make the right decision. Conrad pitied the lad, watching the young private’s eyes sour with indecision and fear. He knew that the lad was doomed to suffer the wrath of one man no matter what his choice.
“Will it hurt?” Gregory finally asked of Douglas as he accepted the instrument. Once in his own grip, the piece felt comfortably familiar to Gregory in an odd way. Even through his thick gloves, he enjoyed the tender feeling of the smooth, polished wood. It was a kind reminder of the natural world which he had abandoned to explore this barren land. Only now did the boy realise how long it had been since his last sight of a tree.
“Not a bit,” the old codger said with a reassuring smile, also certain to flash his victory over to the dour associate at the side. Conrad chose to look away from the two rather than stew in another defeat.
“Here, if I may,” Douglas offered. Like a kindly innkeeper, he lit a match for the neophyte smoker and proffered the flame to the rock. The small mound of black drug ignited as Gregory pulled the fumes into his mouth.
With a sudden spasm of coughing, the stem of the pipe popped from his mouth with a twine of spittle still connecting the wood to his sputtering lips. The boy politely covered his mouth with the back of his hand, though tiny bits of phlegm continued to explode from his mouth with each chest-wracking cough. “Sorry,” he gulped, his eyes red with tears. “Not bad.”
While his body heaved with a long sigh, Douglas silently enjoyed the sight of the young man so reminiscent of his own years gone long gone by. “Good,” he said with paternal reassurance.
As Douglas carefully watched, he could see the familiar glassiness turn Gregory’s eyes ever so slightly more opaque. The light whiskers that had blossomed on the boy’s youthful chin flourished as the cheeks bowed outwards into a dopey grin like the gown of a curtseying ballerina. Though the faculties of the boy were devoted to reassessing the basic functions of his body, his cheerful expression indicated no hardship in these labours. “It’s as if I just...” the boy’s wandering mind lapsed with dull distraction. “I don’t care,” he gushed with a giggle.
“You got it,” Douglas said. The grizzled expert leaned over to wrap a tentacle around the amateur and shepherd him back down the incline. “Come, join the party.”
“Okay,” Gregory agreed, his half-lidded eyes only bothering to look back at Conrad for a moment before excitedly returning to the campfire soiree below.
Conrad’s only movement was to raise the final dying ashes of his own cigarette to his bearded lips. With a final deep inhale that sent the crinkling embers to within a hair’s breadth of his fingers, he cast the butt off into the dark snow before him, landing just shy of Douglas’ retreating feet. A tiny burst of cinders signalled its landing before it was extinguished into nothingness.
Conrad quietly cursed his reticence to keep a final comrade on this damned expedition. His gruff silence had alienated Private Gregory into the eager arms of his enemies, now leaving Conrad completely alone. Despite the numerous skirmishes, battles and travails by which the warrior had been threatened but survived, solitude was somehow the most dreadful of situations to this old man.
Suddenly, the corporal found himself doing something of which he could not remember the last time he had done so. He bowed his head and prayed.
Chapter XXXVIII
The Resurrection of Private Griffin
The world was gray. Murky clouds of colour swirled about in an aimless soup of form and shape, sometimes in dull browns and blues. Baxter could feel his eyes open, but couldn’t see a thing. His eyelids fluttered while checking his system’s response, but still the muddy colours rolled over each other like paint spilling. He tried to move his head, but after a sharp sting of pain down his neck, he found he could not. The feeling of helplessness was not a fond one for Baxter, and he growled loudly like an animal with frustration at his body’s unwillingness to cooperate. The roar from his throat was weak and almost inaudible, a tiny whimper compared to the amount of anger he had channelled into the sound.
The disorienting, unmade world of half-formed sounds and indistinct shapes made him dizzy. But still he struggled to compose himself, patiently noticing that everything was slowly beginning to drift into view. Lines sharpened, shades contrasted, noises clarified. He was curious to see what the afterlife might resemble.
He was in a large stone room, with no windows and one door. A torch was mounted on an iron pilaster on the wall, which provided abundant illumination of the simple chamber. It hurt Baxter’s eyes to look directly into the flame, so he had to squint and stare away from it. The only other ornament in the quarters was a delicately woven rug. Baxter’s normally sharp eyes were still adjusting to their use again, so they struggled to discern the rich tapestry of its crimson sewing. Then Baxter realised he was in a bed.
Somehow he had been stripped of his clothing and was now nicely nestled under a thick, warm blanket. He had no pillow, but felt no desire to complain. Whether this was heaven or hell, he was not certain. Perhaps this was a limbo where he was passing time till judgment, like a doctor’s ancillary waiting room. If he were still alive, it was a miracle that he had escaped death out in the snow.
The door opened and a small, old Asian man walked in. Wearing a thick black robe, he carried a steaming hot bowl of liquid in his hands as he carefully crossed the floor towards Baxter. The starving soldier’s mouth salivated from the rich odour of the broth. So intoxicating was the scent that he now imagined he could feel its intense heat warming his skin from across the room.
The old man’s eyes must have been weak, for it was not until a few paces away from the bed, that he surprisingly jumped with delight to discover the patient had awoken. He chattered excitedly in an unknown language, then graciously offered the bowl for Baxter with bended knee and bowed head as if serving an imperial guest.
The act of sitting up to meet the servant sent a wave of pain through his body. His teeth clenched as he bit back on the discomforting burn along his spine.
“Thank you,” Baxter groaned. Happily accepting the offering, he let the unknown but pleasant smells seep into his nostrils, providing its own special nourishment to his ravaged body. Once he began to feed on the salty dish, he could not stop until he had finished. Trickles of the gruel dripped down his chin, which he was all too happy to wipe away with the back of his hand and lap back into his mouth like a cat.
Now Baxter was the one who was surprised by
the presence of the humble servant, who had remained dutifully waiting for his guest throughout the quick meal. Baxter handed the empty bowl back to the man. “Thank you.” He bowed appreciatively. “Very much.”
A brief burst of syllables formed the acknowledgment of the server. As the kind man accepted the bowl with his right hand, he magically produced a long, black robe with the other. The garment was laid on the end of the bed by the man who then promptly left without another word.
Watching the little fellow depart, Baxter was left with a strange sensation that had seemed to elude him in recent events. He was happy. He couldn’t recall a single instance where in his entire life, through all his years of soldiering, where a man had served him food while in bed. For the first time in a long time, he smiled, even though the expression caused the dry corners of his mouth to crack and ache.
Baxter picked up the robe that was left him and examined the material. It was rough and coarse, but quite thick. He lay back down with his gift draped over his body and fell back asleep.
He awoke later unsure how many minutes or hours may have passed. In the windowless room, there was no time, just the torch that seemed to burn eternally. However, he did notice that a pile of his equipment had somehow appeared in the far corner of his room. Recognising his familiar rifle and coat made delighted him as well.
His legs were numb, stubbornly resisting the brain’s command to swing themselves off the side of the bed. The struggle was like a wrestling match with his own lower half, but eventually the appendages submitted to Baxter’s will. Once his feet dangled over the side, Baxter battled to wiggle his toes. As blood pumped through each squirming digit, he chuckled with childlike joy. Sitting up left a dent of pressure in his stomach which gradually faded.
With both hands on the corner of the bed, he carefully hoisted himself to his feet. His body creaked and ached like an old wooden house weathering a mild storm, but eventually he was able to rise. The sensation of standing made him dizzy, and he gently fell back to a seat on the bed. With a sharp exhale to focus himself, he quickly stood up while waving his hands for balance like a faltering trapeze artist. Finally he was triumphant, standing proudly upright with a foolish grin as if he had never done so before.
With the blanket removed, Baxter noticed that he had been cleaned. The dirt and grime of his journeys had been removed, and what’s more, his wounds had been expertly dressed and attended to. The large slashes across his chest from the white monster were sealed with such expert stitching that he might as well have been treated by the best haberdasher on Savile Row. Once Baxter had slid the robe over his head, he realised the clothing was severely small upon his muscular frame. But the garment still sufficiently concealed his modesty, even if the cuffs ended midway between his wrists and elbows, while the skirt line barely descended past his knees.
Walking was the next obstacle in Baxter’s recovery. His drunken steps threatened to dangerously fail his weight and send him crashing to the ground. Eventually Baxter teetered over to the wall, as the support greatly helped the process of crossing the room on his feet. His knees and calves howled in agony, but eventually cried away their sorrow as he grew accustomed to their use once more.
Baxter reached his pile of possessions, providing an excuse to rest in this arduous crossing of the room with his broken body. Sitting down on the floor, he began to sort and inventory each of the objects, though he only cared about one. Once he located his inner coat, he frantically searched through its inner pocket where he immediately found the only possession that mattered anymore.
His wife’s portrait seemed little worse for wear with only the usual smudges in the drawing. Fortunately no new marks had scarred the precious picture from his recent ordeals. Lifting the token to his mouth, he tenderly kissed his lady’s benevolent face. Finding nowhere to stash the picture in his pocketless robe, he returned the carefully folded paper back into his old coat, trusting it would still remain safe there under his mysterious host’s hospitality.
He reached the door and opened it.
The portal gave way from his antechamber into a sprawling, covered area. As the first room was sparsely decorated with just a bed, a rug and a torch, this massive hall was similarly filled with fire and tapestries to fill the gigantic space, except for a pair of statues protectively placed as sentinels to the exits. Yet despite the increased frequency of decorations, the large chamber could still only be described as simply garnished since every object was particularly drab. As Baxter wandered through the hall gaping at his mysterious surroundings, he noticed that the one obvious thing missing from the space were any seats.
One of the statues was of one of the strange Eastern gods they seemed to worship, a multi-armed entity that he had seen in abundance at the end of his stay in the lower flatlands of India and Tibet. In two of its hands, the deity held a set of golden miniatures, little statues of cherubic men where one laughed merrily while the other sobbed in despair.
Breathing deeply Baxter confirmed that the room smelled of a musty and aged smoke, though his surroundings were clean and free of dust.
Baxter wandered over towards the centre of the room when a voice startled him.
“So you are alive?” The pronounced accent was thick, typical of the mountain peoples, but the words were delivered in a natural and fluid manner. The voice echoed and reverberated around the hall, which was difficult for Baxter to follow in his battered state. Feeling almost faint from the aural ambush, he spun and turned to seek its source.
His foot caught the edge of a stone on the floor, causing him to stumble. When he regained his balance, he looked up to find a new stranger standing motionlessly before him, whose instant appearance made it seem as if the gentleman had magically materialised from the shadows.
Like the prior servant, this new man was also of Asian descent, but even shorter and older while dressed in an identical black robe. Countless years were marked upon his skin as deep wrinkles and spots across his bald head. A set of long white whiskers grew down to his waist. The man’s mouth was currently curled into an almost mischievous smile. He had small eyes buried under withered eyelids and deep sockets, yet they still sparkled with youthful zest. “Do you not speak English?”
Baxter rose to his feet. “Yes,” Baxter finally responded. The man was hunched over from wear and age to stand almost two feet shorter than the athletic soldier.
“You are alive, but are you living your life?” The old man began circling Baxter and examining him like livestock, his cane tapping along with every other step. “I hope you are living well too.”
Baxter turned as far as he could to watch the man disappear behind him, then spun back in the other direction like a tightly twisted spring being released. As quick as Baxter could turn, somehow the old man had already moved back in front of Baxter. The amazing pace indicated a bewildering agility, especially for such a fossil of a man.
“Thank you for your hospitality.” Baxter bowed again in the Asian custom. “And for saving my life as well, I thank you.”
The old man chuckled. “You do not need to express gratitude for doing what is naturally expected of any of us. But since you graciously said so, you are most welcome.” The old man bowed deeply at the waist with his head parallel to the floor.
Baxter was touched by this man’s kindness and humility. His hardened life in the military had never introduced him to such a nice person, nor one so easy to show respect to a man of his colour. “Private Baxter Griffin,” announced Baxter, clapping his heels together with regimental training. He saluted too, which was a near blasphemous show of respect coming from military to a civilian. Realising he might look foolish, Baxter removed his hand from his forehead, briefly examining it to see what had possessed it to perform such a silly ritual. So instead he politely offered his hand forward in formal greeting.
“Oh,” said the man. He reached up with both hands, gently embracing Baxter’s for a welcoming shake. “You can call me Zee.”
“Pleasur
e to meet you, sir.”
Zee chuckled again, his voice rising to an almost childlike pitch in the brief spasm of laughter. “Please, do not use such stiff etiquette.” He playfully swatted his hand as if batting away the notion of formalities. “It makes me feel old.”
“Of course, Zee,” Baxter said.
“There you go.” Noticing that Baxter had opted to rest against a pillar, the old man said, “Are you still weary? If so please take a seat.”
The old man gestured to the floor, which was covered with a large green rug. Baxter’s toes could already detect the material’s comfort, so he eased himself down by sliding his hands on the pole. Zee offered his free hand forward for support, which made Baxter blushingly refuse the invitation to help. With a weary groan, Baxter settled onto folded legs to sit on the floor, which was far more comfortable than he imagined.
The old man remained on his feet which embarrassed Baxter for his social rudeness. He wanted to get back to his feet, or for the old man to sit with him, but neither happened as Zee began their discussion.
“So tell me your story.” With both hands on his cane, he swayed his hips back and forth.
“Would you like to sit as well?” Baxter scooted over to generously make room, though there was more than enough space for the old man to rest wherever he pleased.
“Oh, no, I’m fine. I need to stay on my feet.”
“Okay, then.” Baxter’s head cocked and looked absent-mindedly off at the ceiling for inspiration on a starting point. “Where should I begin?” he sighed.
“Wherever you like,” said Zee invitingly. ““Or perhaps you’d prefer if I went first?”