pirates sell themselves as piglets in order to rob devil-ships, and they always go about it the same way. They start a mutiny when they’re within a few days sail of their lairs. . . .”
“Captives don’t need pirates to get a mutiny going,” Shorty jumped in.
Ah Jun agreed. “When we were imprisoned on the pirates’ junk, we rose against them. We just weren’t lucky enough to take over the vessel like we did here.”
HUNDREDS OF MEN crowded the deck between the sickroom and the water cistern adjacent to the cookhouse.
“Bei hoi, get out of the way,” I pleaded.
All that gave way was my voice, thin and cracked, but I was too thirsty to be polite, and I plunged into the noisy throng. Jovial as on a festival day, most of those I bumped ignored me, the few who raised a hand or voice in anger were easily soothed. I resisted the bangs and shoves that pushed me from my goal, welcomed whatever propelled me closer.
Slamming against the cistern, my pants provided little protection from the metal’s heat. But I did not shrink back a jot. The water sloshed as invitingly as the pure, cool water I drew from our village well and, imitating those around me, I cupped my hands together despite their filth and dipped them in.
Beneath its glittering surface, the lukewarm water was streaked with blood as well as dirt and tasted foul. I drank scoop after scoop anyway. Then, my own thirst satisfied, I dove into the cookhouse, dug out a teapot, sidled, elbowed, and shouldered my way back to the water cistern, filled the pot for Scholar Mok.
The between-decks, although nearly empty, remained gloomy, the air fetid. With no one in my way, however, climbing onto the platform was easy. Kneeling beside Scholar Mok, I took my first close look at the man.
To my dismay, some son of a turtle had stolen his robe, socks, and shoes—everything except his pants. Moreover, the muddy gray of Scholar Mok’s skin was frightening, and his odor rivaled that of the wastebuckets. Could he have soiled himself despite his fast? Or was I smelling decay because he was dead?
“Scholar Mok,” I shouted above the footfalls overhead. “Scholar Mok!”
Accustomed now to the gloom, I saw his chest rise and fall, albeit very slightly, very slowly. Relieved, I persisted.
“Scholar Mok, you can drink. We’re homeward bound.”
I thrilled at the words “homeward bound,” and it seemed to me Scholar Mok’s eyelids fluttered. But his eyes had sunk so deep in their sockets that I might have been mistaken: When I dribbled water through his swollen lips, it spilled from the corners of his mouth, down the sides of his stubbled jaw.
Repeating, “Drink, we’re homeward bound,” I tried again.
This time, not a drop leaked. Encouraged, I carefully tipped in another dollop and another—only to realize when water started trickling out that it must be pooling in Scholar Mok’s mouth.
“Swallow,” I urged.
I checked his throat with my fingertips. In the stuffy heat, he was as drenched as myself. Where my skin was hot to the touch though, his felt chill, and I could detect no movement. Had Scholar Mok become too weak to swallow? If removed from this poisoned air, could he yet be restored?
Rocking back onto my heels, I considered who I could ask to help me carry him on deck. Not the sick groaning in their berths. Nor the gamblers trading insults, rowdy oaths. Should I. . . .
Celebratory firecrackers popped and crackled overhead, and at their merry din, my joy that I’d soon be home swelled, as did my pity for the men lost to their families forever.
QUESTIONED SEPARATELY, TWITCHY, the interpreter, and Ah Duk, the ship’s carpenter, both insisted the captain had feared a mutiny from his sailors almost as much as from us. So the devil had not only forbidden them to gather and converse while on deck, but he’d broken the tips off their knives and hidden any weapons not in use. Then, the mutiny having taken the captain by surprise, he’d had no
“Captives don’t need pirates to get a mutiny going,” Shorty jumped in.
Ah Jun agreed. “When we were imprisoned on the pirates’ junk, we rose against them. We just weren’t lucky enough to take over the vessel like we did here.”
HUNDREDS OF MEN crowded the deck between the sickroom and the water cistern adjacent to the cookhouse.
“Bei hoi, get out of the way,” I pleaded.
All that gave way was my voice, thin and cracked, but I was too thirsty to be polite, and I plunged into the noisy throng. Jovial as on a festival day, most of those I bumped ignored me, the few who raised a hand or voice in anger were easily soothed. I resisted the bangs and shoves that pushed me from my goal, welcomed whatever propelled me closer.
Slamming against the cistern, my pants provided little protection from the metal’s heat. But I did not shrink back a jot. The water sloshed as invitingly as the pure, cool water I drew from our village well and, imitating those around me, I cupped my hands together despite their filth and dipped them in.
Beneath its glittering surface, the lukewarm water was streaked with blood as well as dirt and tasted foul. I drank scoop after scoop anyway. Then, my own thirst satisfied, I dove into the cookhouse, dug out a teapot, sidled, elbowed, and shouldered my way back to the water cistern, filled the pot for Scholar Mok.
The between-decks, although nearly empty, remained gloomy, the air fetid. With no one in my way, however, climbing onto the platform was easy. Kneeling beside Scholar Mok, I took my first close look at the man.
To my dismay, some son of a turtle had stolen his robe, socks, and shoes—everything except his pants. Moreover, the muddy gray of Scholar Mok’s skin was frightening, and his odor rivaled that of the wastebuckets. Could he have soiled himself despite his fast? Or was I smelling decay because he was dead?
“Scholar Mok,” I shouted above the footfalls overhead. “Scholar Mok!”
Accustomed now to the gloom, I saw his chest rise and fall, albeit very slightly, very slowly. Relieved, I persisted.
“Scholar Mok, you can drink. We’re homeward bound.”
I thrilled at the words “homeward bound,” and it seemed to me Scholar Mok’s eyelids fluttered. But his eyes had sunk so deep in their sockets that I might have been mistaken: When I dribbled water through his swollen lips, it spilled from the corners of his mouth, down the sides of his stubbled jaw.
Repeating, “Drink, we’re homeward bound,” I tried again.
This time, not a drop leaked. Encouraged, I carefully tipped in another dollop and another—only to realize when water started trickling out that it must be pooling in Scholar Mok’s mouth.
“Swallow,” I urged.
I checked his throat with my fingertips. In the stuffy heat, he was as drenched as myself. Where my skin was hot to the touch though, his felt chill, and I could detect no movement. Had Scholar Mok become too weak to swallow? If removed from this poisoned air, could he yet be restored?
Rocking back onto my heels, I considered who I could ask to help me carry him on deck. Not the sick groaning in their berths. Nor the gamblers trading insults, rowdy oaths. Should I. . . .
Celebratory firecrackers popped and crackled overhead, and at their merry din, my joy that I’d soon be home swelled, as did my pity for the men lost to their families forever.
QUESTIONED SEPARATELY, TWITCHY, the interpreter, and Ah Duk, the ship’s carpenter, both insisted the captain had feared a mutiny from his sailors almost as much as from us. So the devil had not only forbidden them to gather and converse while on deck, but he’d broken the tips off their knives and hidden any weapons not in use. Then, the mutiny having taken the captain by surprise, he’d had no
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