The Scarlet Crane: Transition Magic Book One (The Transition Magic Series 1)

by J. E. Hopkins

  Nada.

  He strolled down the tree-lined boulevard, passed a multi-story building housing the AUA Language Center, and arrived at the intersection of Raidamri and Sarasin Roads. He crossed the street and maintained his direction, passing the stone arch of a park entrance on his left. A fecund smell tickled his nose.

  A lake or pond somewhere in the park.

  He continued past the park entry. The desk clerk had said there was another one a half-kilometer farther along. He slowed his pace and ambled along the edge of the green space. Ten minutes later he came to the next cross street, noisy with traffic. An arched entrance to the park lay to his left.

  Time to mix things up.

  The walk signal flipped to green. John started across the street. About five feet from the far curb, he reversed course, jogged back to the sidewalk amid blaring horns, and loped under the arch into the park.

  About fifty feet in, the path split into a “Y.” An unoccupied wooden bench, painted in shiny black enamel, squatted in the grass beyond the trail’s divide. The bench faced the park entrance that lay behind him. He sat, enjoying a clear view of the grounds.

  Let’s see what we can see.

  He catalogued the rumble of nearby traffic, crickets, a couple of bullfrogs, and some birds. The smell of foul water was stronger here. A man wearing a beige linen suit and turquoise tie strode into the park, followed closely by a man and woman together, dressed in jogging shorts and tees. All were Asian. The suit took the branch to the right, the two joggers bore left. No eye contact.

  Bingo. The woman with purple socks again. Could be coincidence, but not very damn likely. I’m being tailed. Shit!

  No one else entered the park in the next five minutes. Thunder rumbled like distant cannon fire as the clouds began to boil.

  He rose and strode back toward the street. He could get to the embassy faster by cutting through the park, but he didn’t like the isolation.

  Safer on the streets. I hope.

  * * *

  Lightning and thunder played hide and seek with the clouds as John hurried along a broad sidewalk. An eight-foot brick wall, painted white and topped with razor wire spirals, had lined the sidewalk on his right for the last quarter mile.

  You could tuck the Hanoi embassy into a corner of this place.

  The thunder had become a constant drumming by the time he arrived at the pedestrian entrance to the embassy.

  He turned into a landscaped courtyard. Embassy walls bounded the space on either side. Moss-stained cobblestones covered the ground under a scattered green canopy of tall figs. John gazed past the trees to the back of the square. A flat-roofed guardhouse the size of a small apartment sat about fifty feet away. Windows filled the front of the white brick structure, flanking a central glass door.

  A few fat raindrops pelted the ground as he jogged to the entry and hurried inside. A cloudburst hammered the building. Lightning strobed, and rain assaulted the windows as if someone was pointing a fire hose at them.

  Bangkok natives probably consider this a light shower.

  Marine guards stood behind a counter on his right. A whole body scanner and an airport-style x-ray machine sat about twenty feet away, opposite the entrance.

  He informed a guard about his appointment with the ambassador, offered up his ID, placed his cane on the x-ray belt, and passed through the scanner. The guard operating the machine moved to the end of the belt and retrieved the cane, admiring the brass dragon head.

  Almost as an afterthought, the Marine asked, “Sir, does this come apart in any way?”

  John had never been asked that specific question in all the times he’d been subjected to security. Sheepishly, he said, “As a matter of fact …” He grabbed the top of the cane and depressed the dragon’s ruby right eye while twisting. The head popped loose. It formed the handle of an eight-inch stiletto that John slid from the body of the cane and handed to the guard.

  The marine whistled. “Impressive. That’s one sweet killing blade. Why the hell did my machine miss it?”

  “The cane has a metal lining. The blade looks like part of it.”

  “Which is why we’re taught to ask, no matter what. Although I doubt a bad guy would share the secret. I’m sorry, but I can’t let you carry this in. You can pick it up when you leave.”

  The guard directed him to an exit that opened onto a wide, covered stone walkway. The arched roof sheltered him from the worst of the ongoing storm as he strode toward the embassy portico. A cool mist brushed his face.

  He registered at the embassy’s front desk and was given a yellow “Authorized Visitor” badge. A marine private accompanied him to a conference room in the ambassador’s office complex on the fourth floor.

  The PFC promised that the ambassador would be with him shortly and left him alone, closing the door. John gazed at the intersecting patterns of golden shadow trees that filled the silk wallpaper with the soft color of the morning sun. A teak and rosewood conference table stretched the length of the room. One end of the room was dominated by a large video monitor. The air felt like it was about fifty degrees. The door swung open.

  “Welcome to Bangkok, Agent Benoit. Sorry to keep you waiting.” Ambassador Rosemary Strong whisked into the room, smiling widely, carrying John’s cane. A slender six feet with hazel eyes and gray hair, she had the easy, practiced manner of a lifelong diplomat. John guessed she was in her fifties, maybe early sixties. She grasped his hand firmly and asked him to be seated.

  “When I heard about the cane, I had to see it. Security had a snit, but I saw no reason you shouldn’t have it with you. It’s beautiful, as is the blade.” She passed the cane over the table.

  “Thank you, Madam Ambassador. And it’s John.”

  “Rose, please. I’ve known Marva Bentley since we went to Georgetown together. You DTS guys are extended family. I’ve worked with her a number of times, particularly in this posting. The Bangkok embassy is pretty much a clearing house for Southeast Asia. Seems like something is always going on that brings us together.”

  She used a remote to power the video monitor and punched a number into the console. Marva, Akina, and Stony snapped into focus. “Evening folks,” the ambassador said. “Appreciate your flexibility on the late hour.”

  The Director shrugged. “No problem, Rose, we’ve had plenty to keep us busy. Good to see you outside the Hanoi embassy, John. Let’s get right to work with a report from Stony.”

  “Just one thing before we do that,” John said. He summarized his morning game of cat and mouse.

  “Interesting that she wore purple socks,” Rose said. “Purple is the traditional Thai color of mourning worn by widows. Makes me suspect she was some nationality other than Thai.”

  “Chinese maybe?” Stony asked. “John, I’m not surprised you’re being tailed. That fits with my news. It looks like Ambassador Hogan has been our leak in Hanoi and it’s likely he’s tipped someone to your trip.” She shared the details of the work done by Akina and the DTS analysts. John and the Ambassador interrupted several times with questions, all of which Stony and Akina had anticipated.

  Rose shook her head. “Your analysis is solid, but I’m still having trouble believing it.”

  “It gets more damning, I’m afraid,” Marva said. “Once we were certain, I shared our conclusions with the Secretary of State. She decided to call Hogan back to Washington for a policy review. Trouble is, no one knows where he is. He left the embassy mid-afternoon yesterday to go home but hasn’t shown up. State is looking for him, but nothing so far.”

  “Well, at least the source of the leak has been shut down,” John said.

  Marva asked, “Anyone have anything else?”

  “One thing,” Rose said. “I haven’t talked about this with John yet, but I’ve called in some favors. To my surprise, I’ve gotten some cooperation from the Thai National Intelligence Agency. So far they’ve identified three child trafficking rings that appear to meet your criteria.”

  “Excellent,”
Marva said.

  “It gets better. We think one of the gangs is shipping some kids out day after tomorrow. The NIA has agreed to a bust, and John is invited.”

  Hoeryong

  The Democratic People’s Republic of Korea

  Thanna jolted awake to the screeching of metal and the shrieks of the other kids packed in the steel box.

  After she’d been taken by the boogiemen, the Ông Ba Bị, she’d been locked in a small windowless room with Duc and Kim and six other kids from Hanoi. The room had been warm and they’d been given rice and porridge to eat and more bottles of water than they could drink. Every now and then one of the street gang would unlock the door, lean in and switch off the lights, telling them to sleep. The kids had forgotten their fears and spent the lighted hours playing and singing and napping. Thanna was the oldest in the room, old enough that her fear had grown each day, wondering what was to become of them.

  On the morning after the third sleep, they’d been awakened and herded into the steel box. Bottles of water, a big sack of bread, and jars filled with cold steamed rice were piled in one corner. Empty pails lined a wall. The biggest of the Ông Ba Bị had leaned into the box and warned them, “You’re going on a trip. If you make any noise, you’ll be killed.” He’d closed the doors and slammed locks into place with a loud bang.

  She’d lost track of time, but it felt like they’d been in the foul box for days. Their prison shuddered and banged, like it had been dropped, then dragged across rocks. The slop buckets tipped over, spilling their foul contents and tarring the kids near them who were too slow to get out of the way. Thanna retched from the stench. Light streamed through the holes cut into the sides of the box near the roof.

  She gathered Duc and Kim to her, hugging and shushing them, making promises of safety she knew she couldn’t keep. The temperature was falling; she could see her breath. The other kids gathered around, listening to her assurances, sharing the scant warmth from their tiny bodies. She would use magic to save them all, if only she knew how.

  The box’s jarring movement stopped abruptly, and the doors at one end squealed open. Frozen air stole her breath. She squinted from the sharp, sparkling light.

  An Uncle and Auntie stood like giants in the open doors. “Where is the girl in Transition? The one who speaks Mandarin and Vietnamese.” The woman spoke in Mandarin.

  Thanna stood on quivering legs. “Here. I’m here.”

  “I’m Principal Chu-hua. Tell the children that they’re safe now. Tell them to follow us. We’ll get them clean and warm, feed them.”

  Thanna hesitated.

  The man spoke, a kindly grandfather. “Hurry child, or we’ll all die from the cold.”

  Thanna turned, looking down at expectant faces. “Go with Auntie Chu-hua. She has blankets and water and food. Quickly! Go!”

  The kids scrambled to their feet and out the door. Thanna kept Duc and Kim close, leaving last, afraid to follow her own words.

  Ituri Forest

  The Democratic Republic of the Congo

  The boys sat on the smooth, reddish-brown arm of a massive fig tree, entranced by the scene unfolding twenty feet below. The men of their camp were stringing a waist-high net two hundred paces along the rainforest floor for the day’s first hunt. Isa Njikali and the adolescent age-mates of his Bambuti pygmy tribe usually spent the day gathering food. This was the first hunt they’d been permitted to witness.

  When Isa had awakened two days earlier, his friends had pointed at his face and danced with joy. They pulled him to the river, singing, speaking to the trees. He gazed at the surface of the calm water. His eyes had changed overnight from dark brown to glowing samawati, the color of the late-day sky, seen only in the eyes of a boy or girl ready to undergo the nkumbi ritual and become an adult.

  Isa had told no one, but he was going to use samawati magic to save the sacred Forest from destruction.

  The hunters finished tugging the coarse brown liana net into a long arc. One of the men pointed up at Isa and swept his arm toward the Forest. “Go tell them,” he called.

  Isa climbed down the grid of vines that wrapped the fig’s trunk and ran through the cool morning air of the rainforest for a quarter mile, arriving breathlessly where five women had gathered.

  “They’re ready.” He pointed toward the center of the arc formed by the net, turned, scurried back to his friends, and climbed up to his perch again. He gazed down at the net, barely perceptible in the dim Forest light. The hunters had hidden behind trees and the few shrubs that tolerated the perpetual shadows.

  Birds sang in the canopy high above, and insects buzzed around his head. Then came a steadily rising chorus from the deep woods. The women’s song, punctuated by their sharp clapping, would startle antelope into the waiting trap.

  Suddenly an adult gray antelope, hardly bigger than the camp’s dogs, bounded from the trees and lunged into the liana barrier, legs entangled.

  “Whoop!” The hunters leaped to kill the animal with their iron-tipped spears, dragged it from the net, and hid once again. The song’s din escalated, driving birds from the canopy. Minutes later, another antelope broke from the undergrowth, leaping over the net. A hunter jumped from behind a tree and drove his spear into the animal’s neck. Another hunter jumped on its back, wrestled it to the ground, and held fast until its struggles ceased. Again they hid. The women began to emerge from the Forest, marching toward the net. A third antelope broke from the last bit of cover, jumped left, right, then headlong into the vine barrier, and was killed.

  The women ceased singing, their silence as sharp as their song.

  Isa and his age-mates climbed down the tree and sang thanks to Muungu, the most sacred of the Forest gods. The men and women worked together to divide the carcasses.

  After they finished carving, one of the women—Mother Toure—stood, took two long poles from one of the men, and pointed for one of the other women to move behind her. The two rested the poles between them on their shoulders. The men hung the three butchered antelope on the poles and gave each woman a woven basket filled with the heads and guts.

  Mother Toure looked at the youths and held out her basket. The other woman did the same. “Go with us to the camp and then return to your work.” Isa took one of the baskets and got behind the women. Zaire, his best friend, took the other and lined up behind Isa. The other youths followed, completing the procession for the hike back to the camp.

  The meat was as valuable for trade as it was for food. The band would keep the hind legs from one of the antelope and barter with the remainder of the kill. The prized heads would be cleaned in the nearby river, cooked over the camp’s fire, and shared as a delicacy. Even the dogs would celebrate, feasting on the entrails.

  As they turned to leave, the men began to move the net to a different part of the Forest, where the antelope remained undisturbed. They and the remaining women would hunt as long as there was light.

  * * *

  Mother Toure led them around the giant trees of the rainforest. The youths sang with the women, swaying to the rhythm of their words, talking to the antelope, to the trees.

  Isa shifted his basket from one hip to another, his arms tiring. His mind overflowed with dreams of samawati magic.

  He interrupted the singing. “Mother Toure, will the nkumbi be held in our camp?” All adult women were Mother to the camp’s children and all adult men were Father. Isa believed Mother Toure knew everything.

  She giggled at the silliness of his question. “Nkumbi will be where you are, child.”

  “I am ready, Mother Toure.”

  “I have seen your eyes, Isa. Everyone has. The Elders sent runners to the other bands to learn how many of their youths have samawati eyes. They’ll decide about nkumbi and then you will know.” He heard the smile in her answer.

  “Yes, Mother.”

  Their song resumed. Isa’s mind drifted to the rains that had pushed the Ituri into the Forest six circles of the moon ago, when his people had to flee from the
raging water during the night. The women said it was an ill omen, that Muungu was troubled. The next day, two Bantu men had come to their new camp bearing a strange and terrifying tale. A Bantu Elder stood before the fire and called for all to come hear him. Young and old had gathered around.

  “Important men of the Bakongo tribe traveled the rivers from Mombasa to our village.”

  Rarely did the Bakongo visit the Forest. What did this mean?

  One of the Mothers addressed the Bantu Elder, her voice raised above the swelling wave of concern. “The Bakongo journeyed far.” It was not polite to ask why they came from such an unimaginably distant place.

  The Elder didn’t need to be asked. “They tell of a road being built through the forest so trees can be carried away on the river.”

  The band laughed and mocked him. “How could a man move a tree?”

  “They bring with them giant iron beasts that cut a tree like the Bambuti cuts the neck of an antelope. The Bakongo say the Bambuti will leave the forest and live with the Bantu.”

  They argued late into the darkness. Some decided the Bantu were drunk and not to be trusted. Most, like Mother Toure, felt the truth of their story and were profoundly saddened. It was then Isa vowed to use his samawati magic to stop the evil and save the Forest.

  A root grabbed Isa’s ankle and jerked him back to the present. Zaire, behind him, snorted at his friend’s clumsiness. Isa was saved from further embarrassment by their arrival at their camp. The twenty in Isa’s band shared seven huts made from bent saplings covered with large mongongo leaves.

  Four Bantu tribesmen were sitting around the fire in the center of the camp, along with Father Abulengu, who—lazy, often drunk—had not joined the morning hunt. The Bantu chittered with excitement when they spied the three antelope.

  Zaire asked, “Mother Toure, may we watch you trade the meat?”

  “No, you’ve been away from your work too—”

  Abulengu stood and interrupted her. “Mother, the Bantu will barter with me today, not you. Return to the hunt.”