Blue Poppies Read online

As he neared the bridge, something caught the boy’s eye. The great stone-and-timber piers that supported the iron chains jutted a yard or so into the water that swirled about in icy whirlpools. Mountain flotsam and village rubbish were caught there in a grubby tangle. But today there was something else, larger and darker than driftwood.

  In a moment the boy was scrambling down to the water’s edge. A man, facedown, was bobbing gently on the flood. The boy pulled at him, feet slipping and scrabbling for purchase on the icy gravel as he heaved at the waterlogged coat. With a frantic effort he turned the body over.

  He peered at the face, at once relieved and surprised. It wasn’t anyone from his family’s encampment. It was no one he knew. It was a Chinese soldier. In the same moment as this realization, he heard shouts behind him. He looked up and saw one of the bridge guards pointing a rifle at him while two more were slithering down the bank. As they were about to lay hands on him, one cried out, pointing.

  Two more corpses were no more than feet away, black bulks sailing past them in the opaline, ice-laden water and away under the bridge.

  When Jamie emerged from his bedroom that morning, Captain Duan was already standing with a bowl of tea (unbuttered) in his hands. The room was dark and cold.

  “You will not have to suffer this dreary place much longer, Mr. Wilson,” said the Captain. “I expect orders regarding you any day now. Unfortunately, our radio at Chamdo seems not to be established yet. Otherwise I would ask you to operate your set to receive your own marching orders.”

  He gave a dry little smile. The door opened and Puton entered with a large dish of barleymeal that she placed on the packing-case table. The Captain’s look followed her intently. He said: “She has fine features, Mr. Wilson. Her deformity almost becomes her, don’t you agree? As with Tibet itself, a touch of pathos enhances the appeal.”

  Puton made no sign of hearing; it was Jamie who flushed with anger. But the Captain did not notice. He was watching Puton. She straightened, looking trustingly at Jamie. He felt his throat tighten, wondering what on earth he could do about anything.

  At that moment there came a cacophony in the yard, heavy boots running across the yard, men calling: “Captain!” Duan stepped smartly to open the door. Outside, his sergeant and a breathless infantryman stood speaking in low voices, urgent and anxious.

  Still Puton looked at Jamie. He saw her mouth open slightly, as though she would speak to him. He felt his whole frame quivering with frightened need: he was on the verge of drawing her back into his room simply to bury his face in her neck and take in the scent of her thick hair.

  Captain Duan bellowed an order: the troopers ran to saddle the horses. The Captain turned back into the room, his face murderously cold, all courtesy discarded. He pushed past Puton so that she stumbled towards the wall. He seized his revolver belt and was gone through the door. A moment later, Karjen burst into the room with news. The Chinese were strutting through the village, hammering on gates and ordering the population to the marketplace.

  A thin, bleak little snow drifted down on Jyeko market. The stalls were empty, the shops closed except for one that the soldiers had forced. The street was as crowded as ever, but the people stood speechless. The monks were all present; only the ancient Abbot had been left alone. Along one side of the market, ten infantrymen stood with their long rifles at high port, bayonets fixed. Blocking the riverbank exit were four cavalry horses, the troopers clasping their carbines across their chests. In front of them, Captain Duan sat motionless in the saddle. But no one was looking at these.

  Two soldiers were at work by the empty, snow-dusted stalls. They had ripped off several timbers and had constructed a crude vertical framework lashed together with cord taken from the shop. Two others held the young shepherd with his arms jammed up behind his back. When the timbers were secure, they stripped his coat off, then hauled him to the frame. They spread his arms wide and bound them to the rough wood, pulling the cords tight around his wrists and then across the palms of his hands. The boy stared about in wide-eyed terror.

  From his saddle, Captain Duan watched without expression. When the shepherd was fixed, he made a small sign to his men to pause, then turned to the crowd. “Three are dead! Three of your brothers, your liberators, your dearest Chinese friends are dead!” His voice was hoarse and screeching, his accent making the Tibetan phrases weird and harsh. “Thus has Tibet rewarded them. Thus do I repay Tibet!”

  The crowd was silent. At the back, Jamie and Karjen entered the market and stood on a slight rise under a wall from where they could see clearly.

  The soldiers had found a piece of bamboo. This they split with a bayonet into long slivers. They took the helpless boy by the hand and the lieutenant pushed long slivers of bamboo under each fingernail. They pushed them hard, deep as they would go. A sigh went through the crowd of villagers as the boy screamed. Slowly, his fingers curled and uncurled, absurdly long. White-faced Jamie thought of Struwwelpeter. The back of his mouth flooded with saliva. He was going to be sick.

  Then he heard the soldiers laugh. The lieutenant had gone into the shop, whose owner stood on the muddy step wringing his hands pathetically. The officer emerged with a clutch of paper prayer flags scrumpled in his hand. Pausing, he took out of his pocket a single coin. He handed this to the shopkeeper with a curt bow: all paid for. Stepping to his victim, he tore small holes in the paper flags and slid them onto the bamboo jutting from the shepherd’s fingers. One flag on each finger. The snow alighted on the boy’s head, his fingers curled and uncurled, fluttering their desperate prayers.

  The Chinese soldiers howled with mirth. The cavalrymen gripped their saddle pommels to prevent themselves tumbling off with laughter. Those with their rifles presented could barely stand straight enough to menace the crowd. The Tibetans stood in utter immobility. At the back, Jamie sat on the ground with his head in his hands, retching silently. So he heard, but did not see, the contemptuous crack of the Captain’s pistol.

  CHAPTER TWO

  KHENPO NIMA WANTED nothing to do with revenge. He saw the speechless rage that had taken hold of Jyeko, he understood it, and he grieved over it. He saw in the eyes a lust that prayer wheels would not satisfy, he saw the little groups that muttered in alleyways, the shufflings of barely suppressed rage and the muffled cries of ferocity. Khenpo Nima was no fool: something was smoldering, was being planned. The likes of Karjen, the Khampa merchants, the herdsmen and hunters were afire. He realized grimly that several of his senior colleagues in the monastery were inclined to consider the Chinese beyond the pale of Buddhist tolerance. No one had confessed to knowing anything about the dead soldiers in the river. But the monk saw the looks between men, the stares and silences that shouted across the village.

  The young shepherd’s body had been left draped until early evening. Soon after dark someone cut the cords and took the boy away. The Chinese did nothing to stop this but if Khenpo Nima hoped that passions might abate, he was soon disappointed.

  Had the monk been in the market the following morning, he might have witnessed a curious discussion. In the shadow of an old house, a knot of Tibetans were whispering urgently, monks and village men, Karjen and also Jamie, listening to them. Jamie stood stiff with reluctance. The Tibetans were urging him in the direction of the monastery.

  With the Colonel’s departure, Captain Duan had moved his headquarters to the monks’ assembly hall, though he still slept at Jamie’s. He had taken over the ping-pong table as a desk and after breakfast was discussing food and forage with his NCOs. The monks were in the prayer hall clocking up prayers; Duan could hear the irritating mumbles. Then the guard on the door hefted his rifle to some newcomer, barring access. Captain Duan looked up and saw Jamie peering in, a monk at his elbow. After a second of scrutiny, the Captain nodded to the guard who let Jamie pass.

  They exchanged stiff greetings, then the officer sat back and waited. The young European was clearly ill-at-ease, groping for words. At last he began: “You’ve had no news of what
is to happen to me?”

  “You are surely aware that no messenger has reached me yet from Chamdo.”

  “I see.”

  “As for the radio, Chamdo is still not transmitting. I have, therefore, no instructions.”

  “Oh. Right, then.” Jamie glanced at the soldiers who waited around the room, their conference with the commander interrupted.

  Captain Duan said impatiently: “Was there anything else? You see that I am busy.”

  “Oh. Well, there was one thing. The monks and myself, we’d like to invite you to the monastery.”

  “We are already here, Mr. Wilson.”

  “Yes, but I mean for a game. Sports.”

  “What sports?”

  “Well, ping-pong. Table tennis. Your lieutenant said that you’re all very good.”

  Captain Duan looked up at the lieutenant in astonishment. The other man laughed. “Sir, we have seen these people playing. Even their monks! They are not so good. I think we shall slaughter you, mister!”

  Jamie managed a wan smile in return. The Captain peered at him, bemused and suspicious.

  That evening, the first ever table tennis tournament in Tibet took place in the Jyeko monastery. A sergeant joked to Jamie that it was an “international” tournament but Captain Duan curtly reminded them all that, as Tibet was a region of China, this was a fraternal, domestic matter.

  Duan was far from a fool: exemplary executions do not commonly lead to ping-pong tournaments. But his men were growing bored and Peking’s orders were that they ingratiate themselves wherever possible. He gave his assent—and instructions for extreme caution.

  Shortly after dark, the assembly hall was crowded and ablaze with lamps. Butter-oil smoke belched up to join the ancient crust on the timbers. Captain Duan had graciously removed his papers from the table. Around the sides of the hall, monks and village men chattered. At the end farthest from the door, the Chinese soldiers gathered. They were alert, watchful, and they had very particular orders: while their comrades were playing, the others were to keep their weapons at hand.

  Jamie stood beneath one of the high, barred windows holding the last of the box of white balls. Beside him, Khenpo Nima looked around the company. There were no women or children present; he wanted to know why, but found himself reluctant to ask. The Abbot had retired to the scripture library: “Leave it to Wangdu,” his colleagues had said. “Wangdu plays best.” As Nima looked at the glistening, intent faces round him, he found the smiles fixed too hard, the eyes too bright.

  Wangdu stood forward. He addressed the company and included the Chinese, ostentatiously so. Tibet and China had always lived side by side, he said. There were great changes in the air, he did not know what the immediate future might bring. But if friendship were the guide, mutual prosperity would be found. Therefore he welcomed the Chinese to Jyeko monastery and hoped that ping-pong could bring understanding in its train.

  Khenpo Nima thought: Wangdu is a shrewd man: he’s heard the accents of the moment.

  The first game began. Jamie and Khenpo Nima played a Chinese sergeant and a private; for all Jamie’s efforts, they were soundly whipped. A second match went the same way. The villagers laughed and cheered Tibetan points but there were long awkward minutes when only Chinese soldiers applauded. The Tibetans began to glower. Friendship was not making great headway and the soldiers stood with a firm grip on their rifles. But certain monks went murmuring discreetly among the villagers: thereafter, the Tibetans applauded the Chinese with markedly greater generosity. Khenpo Nima noticed that the Chinese began to relax. One or two had slipped their rifles off their shoulders and had leaned them against the stone wall. When they finished a game, they returned in triumph to their comrades to laugh and chatter—but did not pick up their weapons.

  A roar of delight: Wangdu had beaten the sergeant. For a moment, the soldier stood in idiotic immobility, unable to credit his disgrace. Wangdu, his face barely big enough to contain his grin, swaggered in front of his supporters, his robes swaying. The jabbering of monks, merchants and soldiers grew ever louder and the Tibetans began to move between the Chinese. Small sums of money were discreetly displayed. The soldiers were nodding and laughing at the certain bets. Now the Chinese group was fragmented, divided by villagers.

  The NCOs began to debate among themselves as to whom should face Wangdu and Jamie in the doubles. Few of the soldiers now held weapons. The lieutenant was marshaling his team, and Khenpo Nima realized that the lieutenant was in charge because Captain Duan had left the room.

  He saw Wangdu muttering unhappily to Karjen: the bandit seemed to be urging the monk to play, to continue. Jamie stood by the table holding two paddles. He looked bewildered, lost in the babble that surrounded him. He glanced repeatedly over his shoulder as though for reassurance and instruction. Khenpo Nima saw beads of sweat on Jamie’s brow, a hint of fear, very far from home.

  “We are waiting!” called the lieutenant.

  There was a sudden hush. Wangdu went to the table and Jamie held out a paddle. His eyes were loud with alarms and questions. Wangdu took the paddle and smiled: “No worries, Mr. Jemmy. We slaughter them now.”

  He looked around the room, which had fallen still, every face intent on the game. Then he turned to the table and the two Chinese opposite. Wangdu toyed with the ball in his hand a moment, rolling it speculatively between his thumb and fingers as though contemplating a spin. He tossed it lightly into the air and struck it hard—not at the table but straight at the face of the Chinese player opposite.

  When the Tibetans moved, the Chinese were staring at Wangdu, at the soldier who pressed a hand to his eye with an angry shout, and at the ball that ticked away across the floor. They were still staring when the first knives sank into their bellies, twisting and ripping even as Khampas flung powerful arms about their throats. The soldiers cried out, turning towards the stack of rifles against the wall only to find a phalanx of herdsmen in their way, bringing short cudgels down on their heads. The Chinese shouted with surprise and rage, then shrieked with fear and pain as they fell. Two soldiers burst out through the door and were at once pursued by a mob. For the first and only time in its history, the little monastery was defiled by screams.

  In the center of the tumult, Jamie stood frozen by the table. He still held a ping-pong paddle. Khenpo Nima saw him gaze at the slaughter all around him—and slowly crouch to pick up the loose ball. Then Jamie backed away until he reached a stone ledge beneath one of the high windows with its heavy, vertical iron bars. As he sat down to watch the Chinese die, a frantic soldier leaped up by him, grabbing at the bars above his head. Knives were at the man’s back, a dozen hands reached and tore at him. Still he kicked and screeched and pulled at the bars above Jamie, as though to haul himself out through the gap as the knives came on again.

  At last the soldier gave up his grip on the bars, slumping and sliding down. A blade had breached his neck, and his blood gushed onto Jamie’s face. Then he slithered to the floor, and there was silence.

  Outside, shouts came and went in the lanes as the news ran through the village. Jamie heard it where he sat motionless beneath the window, ashen-faced and blood-drenched. Khenpo Nima, boggle-eyed, rushed away to find the Abbot. Throughout the hall, the men of Jyeko looked about them. At their feet lay a dozen soldiers and their NCOs, gashed and broken. Their killers did not exult, but stared in astonishment at what they had done.

  CHAPTER THREE

  KARJEN, THE VEINS on his flat balding skull distended, spat on the ground in front of a Jyeko youth and roared: “Birdbrained baby!”

  The young man drew back, looking around for friends, wondering if he should throw a punch.

  Karjen gave him no respite to think it over. “Why didn’t you go after him? Don’t you know how to ride a horse?”

  “What difference does it make?” protested the villager. “We killed his men, we laughed the bastard out of town!”

  They stood before the gates of the monastery, a dry wind blowing grit in
their faces. Jamie, his face newly rinsed, felt sick with dread.

  “You tell him, Mr. Jemmy,” said the indignant young villager. “The Chinese Captain will be shit scared of us now, he won’t come back in a hurry.”

  “Not on his own,” said Jamie. “The problem is, he’ll come back with an army.”

  “Well, we stopped him stealing anything from your house, at least.”

  “How do you mean?” asked Jamie.

  “He was in your house, Mr. Jemmy. That’s where he was hiding, stealing things. We scared the wits out of him!”

  Jamie said not another word but started off at a run through the lanes.

  Puton was in her room cradling Dechen, crooning comfort to her as the little girl tugged in fright at her mother’s plaits. There had been sudden, horrible shrieks outside, murderous cries, two shots fired from a fleeing pony. Dechen was terrified; Puton’s own fears had had to be stifled, drowned in a gentle song. Then they heard a scuffling noise from the yard and a curse: Jamie, pelting in through the gate, had slithered on the icy stones and fallen.

  He appeared in the doorway a moment later. “May I come in?” He squatted beside Puton’s bed where she held her daughter.

  “Have you heard what has happened?” he asked.

  “They came here,” she replied, nodding. “The Captain has gone, I don’t know where.”

  “Towards Chamdo, fast as he can. All hell’s loose now.”

  Puton pulled Dechen to her breast, closed her eyes and rocked backwards and forwards very slightly. Jamie put a hand on her shoulder. “Did he harm you?”

  She lifted her face a fraction. “He did not touch us.”

  Jamie waited. Surely that was not everything? He prompted: “So what happened?”

  “He came, and he was standing in the doorway there, just looking at me. Dechen was here. He did not say anything. Then there was noise, he ran out to the gate, he took a pony and was gone. That is all. He did not harm us.” She continued to cradle Dechen, crooning almost inaudibly into the child’s hair.