I say this is the best wine of my life. I offer him rum but he didn’t want it. He never drink or eat nothing that whole morning, as far as I could remember, but I was so drunk it didn’t even register. All I know was he hand hardly leave my hip and we turn left on Frederick Street and chip right up to the Savannah.
By that time we fall well behind the DJ truck with them 20-foot speakers blasting hard, sexy soca music. We start to get jostle as the crowd swell and the road narrow, so we drop back and end up chipping by the rhythm section truck, a flatbed with fellahs sitting with their legs dangling off the sides, every man jack holding a scratcher or knocking some iron, and one massive fellah leaning on the back of the truck cab beating a drum nearly big like me: Boom. Boom. Boo-doom. Boom. Boom. Boo-doom. The rhythm section truck was driving slower than the DJ truck, and is only couples around we, no wildness, only sweetness in the chip and the wine and before we know it we reach the Savannah and the sun was up.
As we touch the track leading to the Savannah stage I pull my boy hand and let him know I had to go and pee. I didn’t bother to look for a toilet, just two cars park close enough together for me to drag down my pants and squat behind the cars in the gutter, my legs spread wide and hot piss streaming out for about a hour after all that rum and water, pee hitting the concrete drain like the spray from a hose. When I done, I do a hard shake and pull up my pants quick quick so nobody could see my naked bambam. Don’t laugh. Is so Carnival is. From the smell in the gutter I know I wasn’t the first to pee there. I splash some water on my hands from the wineskin round my neck and wipe my hands on my pants. When I watch them, they red and yellow and brown and blue; J’Ouvert was all over my ass.
Me and my boy run to catch the band and we meet them just when they was starting to cross the stage. You never hear about the stage? Oh God, that stage is a sweetness. I ain’t care who you is or what you for: the Queen’s Park Savannah stage for Carnival worse than cocaine to make you high. I let go my boy hand and spin off by myself, wining in a circle to celebrate the true start of Carnival, my national festival, wining to celebrate life and the freedom to wine, wining with my hand and foot spread to say to the world and all the people in the stands on either side of the stage, “Look me! Look me! I reach! Look me!”
I feel somebody wining on my backside and when I look it was one of the friends I did come with. I ain’t see them since the band first start to move.
“You all right?” My friend had a cigarette dangling from the corner of he mouth, a half-full bottle of Courvoisier in one hand and a dirty vuvuzela in the next. He had mud on one side of he face and black grease on the other side, and he poor granny wig was nearly dragging off he head. He mother duster coat was cover down in paint; every color of the rainbow, and some colors God never invent, splash and wipe and rub over every inch of it. He swaying, like a good breeze would blow him down.
“You ain’t see that man? How you mean if I all right? I bess,” I tell him. “I bess.” And I grab the brandy and top up my bottle of rum with it. I shove the flask back in my pants pocket, give my friend a small wine and turn around to look for my boy.
He wasn’t far, watching me with them black black eyes, wining on the spot with he hand in the air like half the thousand people on the stage with we. I chip toward him, he put he hands on my hips and we gone again.
The band chip back to where we start from, the end of Ariapita Avenue, around the corner from the National Stadium. By this time sun hot in the sky. It must be was eight o’clock in the morning. The DJ truck park up, and the rhythm section truck park up behind it. The DJ was still playing but the fellahs from the rhythm section jump off the truck and scatter. We lose about three-quarters of the band by then; was only stragglers and diehards still with we, crusty paint and mud dry and cracking on their skin. Some people lie down right there on the pavement, but it had a grassy verge and me and my boy went and sit down, back to back. All this time I still ain’t know he name and to tell the truth we never say word one to each other. I didn’t even know if he could talk English.
We sit down there and I start to get sleepy, so I lie back on the damp grass, hoping nobody didn’t pee there, and my boy lie down next to me with he head prop up on one hand. He watching me again, like he trying a Svengali with them black black eyes. I tired and I drunk no ass, and I my eye closing down with sleep when he take my right hand and put it back on the green jewel on he chest. I see blackness and stars and that was the last thing I know.
When I wake up I was here. Somebody bathe me and put me in this cassock, just like yours. What is this? Cotton? Silk? Something else? It not feeling like any cloth I ever touch before. When I open my eyes you was the first thing I see. Then I start to look around at the room. I see how is a big, big square with plenty empty bed, and everything make from steel or some kind of shiny metal, but you ain’t find when you raise your hand to touch the wall like it melting away and your hand passing right through it? I not seeing no windows or doors—you was here before me. You see any? You see my boy anywhere?
And you not feeling like if we moving? Like if we on a plane or something? But this not like any plane I ever fly in before. I not hearing no engine. And how the plane so big …?
Between Islands
Jaymee Goh
The name of the ship was clearly a joke, Johari reflected as he cleaned the cannons. The cold iron was a curious gray, from alloys that were produced from new refinement processes. Pure Arabian steel, the sayyida kept saying, even though the ore actually came from various places all over her trade route to build the ship.
Still, the ship was beautiful, and the sayyida had spared no expense on the interior design—wood-carvings on the masts and pillars, comfortable cubby holes for the sailors, and the architecture was paradoxically airtight and airy to mimic houses at home, even though the air was cold. Johari pulled his pashmina shawl around him even more tightly. The sayyida had given the entire crew such wraps, part of presents for their loyalty to her in traveling so far from home.
He finished the last flare cannon and moseyed to the canteen. The ship’s cook—the sayyida refused to travel without the woman who had made food for the crew the entire voyage, and Johari knew they had a history beyond it—was busy in the cooking corner, splashing water and herbs into a wok on the small, controlled fire stove. Puan Ching had not been pleased at the restriction in fire size, and learning how to control the stove had been a trial to her. But for her art, she persevered, even though the crew suffered for it.
“Puan Ching?” Johari asked hesitantly.
“Yes?” she asked back, not bothering to look up from her loudly sizzling wok.
“When will lunch—”
The wok foomed with flame. Johari took a step back.
“What was that?”
“Er….” Johari re-considered the question.
“Johari, are you bothering the cook?” Nakhoda Harun asked from behind, making Johari jump.
“No, tuan!” he stammered.
“Come on, then. You don’t really want to bother Puan Ching right now, do you? She’s playing with fire right now, and it’s not nice to bother people when they do that.” Nakhoda Harun grinned down at Johari, his teeth pearly white against the dark brown of his skin. Johari could see that the nakhoda had newly trimmed his moustache at the behest of the sayyida.
“You always make her sound like she’s so dangerous,” Johari ventured, wanting to be at ease with the nakhoda. Harun had traveled for a long time with both the sayyida and Puan Ching, to the point where he called the sayyida the more affectionate, informal Cik. This was Johari’s first journey with the sayyida, ostensibly to earn his fortune, but more to escape home, and he desperately wanted to get into Nakhoda Harun’s good graces.
“She’s not as harmless as she looks. Come, let’s go to the open-air deck for a breather. If the ship bursts into a fiery conflagration, I want the chance to jump off.”
“To our esteemed friend and relation, Captain Francis Light, upon
whom we have bequeathed the Island of Pinang, well-wishes of good health and prosperity from this hand of Sultan Abdullah Makarram Shah III, ruler of the Kingdom of Kedah. Peace be upon you in this year of 1202, 4 Thw al-Qi.
“I write—” and here its recipient winced at the sight of the royal ‘I’, a reminder of who he was dealing with, “-to remind you of the terms of secession of Pinang to the East India Company, wherein under Bab 4, Syarat 23, it is stated that whenever Kedah is under threat from its enemies, the East India Company will rise as a friend and swell the ranks of the army of Kedah.
“As of this writing, the borders of Kedah to the north are once again menaced by our neighbors across the Pattani River. Although Kedah bears the people of Singgora no ill-will, the inhabitants house an army of Siam that prepares to strike within the month.
“Thus, I ask the East India Company to fulfill Bab 4, Syarat 23, and send aid as needed. Laksamana Amanjid Taksin, who bears this letter, will confer with you on the extent of aid that the Kingdom of Kedah requires.”
A servant boy, white-skinned with light brown hair, brought in a tray of coffee and kuih, and set it down on the writing desk with a nervous glance at the sun-brown man at ease in the chair opposite. Thomas had not quite acclimatized himself to living among the Malays yet, and for that, Francis was a bit sorry, thus kept the boy in his Suffolk House residence.
He picked up the porcelain cup and assessed the admiral. Then he smiled. “I’m so sorry, Admiral, but this is a request that will take time to process,” he told his visitor. In an English aside, he whispered to Thomas, “Tell Mrs. Palmer to bring in Mr. Fauzan to cook tonight’s dinner.”
The large bird alighted on the steel ropes that held together the open-air deck of the ship, demanding attention from the figure that approached. It flew down to the railing proper, croaking in pleasure as it saw Nakhoda Harun waving a specially-made piece of jerky. Several of the crew clustered around, waiting expectantly.
Smooth hands stained with ink reached for the package tied to the bird’s halter. Thin lips pursed. Harun removed the bird’s halter, to signal that it could rest for the time being, and the bird preened, waiting for its thanks. He tossed it several pieces, a game of theirs, until it gave up and flew onto his shoulder instead to snap at the bag in his hands eagerly.
Nakhoda Harun patted the messenger bird in welcome. It was a carefully-bred genetic accomplishment of several generations of seabirds and falcons. Trained to cover vast seas in record time between specific outposts, it was one of the sayyida’s most expensive purchases, but the crew was deeply appreciative. Through it, they could keep in touch with family, as it flew to different outposts, where guardsmen wrapped up the letters into a single packet and tied it to the bird’s halter. After it had rested, it would fly to its next stop, until it felt it had enough and went looking for its moving outpost.
The anxious faces on deck dared not crowd closer. One by one, they received letters, a single missive each, as exhorted, to keep the load on the bird light. They gave thanks to the sayyida, then bowed to the bird.
Its specie was technically called in various languages the Ocean Falcon. But the crew called it Undan Berkat, the Pelican of Blessing.
Lu Gen Wei jian-zhang raised his long-scope again, trying to discern the shape through the clouds. The ship’s engines were keeping good time. It was almost unbearably noisy more than three decks below, but outside, the furious turbines sounded like cicadas that refused to sleep.
This was not quite what he had hoped for when he had asked for a promotion. To be commander of a vessel was a great honor, and he was eager to serve, but he had not quite expected this much distance between himself and his employer. He envied his former superior’s new circumstances, and found himself missing games of checkers and chess.
The Dao Yi was not very large, but it was very fast, due to the new steam engines, and also surprisingly easy to steer. Aside from essential personnel, the bulk of the crew—if they could be called that—were mechanics and engineers, who spoke to each other in stilted, halting phrases, relying on their few multilingual shipmates to communicate certain ideas effectively. Often, it was easier to scribble on paper and point to the technical drawings of the ship. Then they would nod, foreigner or not, and get to work. It was a miracle of cross-cultural engineering cooperation.
He considered himself lucky to be in charge of a new crew that feared their employer too much to be querulous. When the crew were free, they would escape the noise to above deck. He would watch them cluster until they were comfortable. Some never strayed from their comfort zones, but most were willing to take a chance through their more integrated colleagues.
For a few moments, he let his thoughts drift, and wondered what Fei xiao-jie was doing. Raucous laughter jerked him out of a tender recollection, and he smiled at the new game some of the crew had invented. They were not alone, and soon, they would be home.
To His Royal Majesty, Sultan Abdullah Makarram Shah III of the sultanate of Kedah
From Charles Grant, Director of the East India Company
Sir,
I must say I am astonished that such an illustrious ruler as yourself would make a request for military backing. I regret to inform you that this particular clause of your contract with Captain Francis Light is devoid of validity as the Company had had no information regarding the secession of the Prince of Wales Island to the control of the Company prior to the signing of the Contract. With regard to protection, the East India Company already maintains a coastal guard in the waters surrounding Kedah as a show of good faith, which Your Lordship accepted prior to signing the contract.
The East India Company is first and foremost a trading corporation; thusly, any and all artillery support on hand is required to protect the vessels and ensure the welfare of our outposts as a first priority. In local politics we maintain a neutral stance in order to avoid ill will from any party with whom we may already share trade, unless one party poses a threat to the ideals to which the East India Company espouses and to our trade partners.
Rest assured that we would provide you assistance insofar as our resources are not stretched beyond their limitations and it is to our misfortune that we cannot grant assistance beyond what we have already provisioned for the coasts of the Kingdom of Kedah. In the future we will make provisions to further the mutual interests of the colony of Prince of Wales Island and the Kingdom of Kedah through whatever means necessary.
Ching Seow Fen tsked at the young woman sitting at the writing desk, as she set a tray down on the only free corner. Several letters sprawled across the surface, and rustled gently when picked up for proper arrangement. Without looking up, Fei siew-je picked up a teacup and held it up to her servant expectantly.
The old cook shook her head. She had watched the willful little girl grow, and followed her across the worlds and waters, but she doubted she would ever understand the extent of her charge’s ambition that led to where they were now, in a ship’s cabin, almost bombarded with letters from all over the known world. So she said nothing, and poured tea into the cup.
If Fei siew-je felt the heat of the freshly boiled water through the porcelain, she gave no indication. She laid the letters neatly side by side, picking one up to squint at the handwriting, all the while, holding the cup aloft, waiting for the tea to cool down.
“Fei siew-je, the tea will get cold—”
“Did you know, Seow Fen, that there is a British colony in the Straits? As if the Dutch in Melaka weren’t bad enough.” Fei siew-je brought the teacup to her lips.
Seow Fen considered this for a moment. Fei siew-je held a grudge against any gwailo, ever since her forced engagement to one, but she ordinarily avoided them, except for lucrative business deals. Still, the Straits were home to Fei siew-je, although she was fast running out of ports to comfortably stop at, due to the burgeoning number of gwailo.
“Knowing you,” Seow Fen sniffed, “you will find some way to deal with this, and make a profit from it at the s
ame time.”
Yap Siew Fei smiled. “I do like making money.”
Tun Muasif, Bendahara of Kedah, was troubled when he met with the Temenggung and learnt the distressing news from the border. The Englishman had lied, and Kedah would receive no help from the East India Company. Bendahara Tun Muasif knew how the decision had plagued the sultan for weeks, whether or not to trust the white-skinned foreigner who had come to their shores asking to lease the island of Pinang.
It had not been easy, helping his sultan make the decision. Even Captain Light’s offer of a ship to patrol the coasts of Kedah had been disquieting. The East India Company’s reputation seemed ill-earned; how could they have monopolized trade to the West with little military might? Traders from all over had passed through the Straits of Melaka since sea-faring had been invented, and none of them could claim the same kind of monopoly—not that they wanted to; it was more trouble than it was worth.
Bendahara Tun Muasif sighed as he prepared to meet with his sultan. It would not be a good meeting.
The ropes that held balloon to basket creaked, and Johari patted them to ensure they held firm. He glanced at his co-pilot, who was blowing into the furnace that enabled them to stay aloft.
Samy was his age, and they were among the youngest of the crew. They were also the lightest, making them ideal for the mission—at least, that is what they understood. For the last two weeks, the sayyida had drilled them incessantly in how to speak, stand, stay silent, and dress, and in what to say, do, and wear. They had been given instructions they carried in their heads, and new clothes they kept in waterproof leather bags to wear when they arrived at their destination.
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