Chapter 14 - The Year of the Tiger_The Dominion: Steampunk

Chapter 14

The Year of the Tiger

It had always interested Max to observe which towns had taken their new English names, and which, despite the colonist’s efforts, had somehow persisted in being known by their original Māori. The settlement at Kaituna was one that it seemed hadn't yet made up its mind.

Kaituna was the river, a tributary of the Aorere, Kai meaning food, tuna being eel. So Kaituna was a place to catch eels. But the bold black lettering on the white sign board hanging from the veranda of the train station there simply read 'Eeling'. Possibility to invoke a connection with west London's Ealing Broadway and Common stations. A comparison that failed for any who could understand it.

The path Max and Wiremu trod from the Pa, crossed the Valley Line as it made a sweeping corner and came into Eeling Station. Once over the rails that path joined with the main road up from Collingwood and on to Riverdale.

The settlement at Eeling wasn't large. There was the station, toward which Max and Wiremu marched, a primary school, a collection of weatherboard houses and a general store. The Kaituna River was spanned there by a wide, arch backed foot bridge. On the far side a collection of semi-permanent, open sided stalls had been erected for the purpose of offering a farmers market for both local growers and traders from Chinatin. It was the one place that those two worlds met on a daily basis.

“I guess we are a tad early,” said Max. “Let's have a look at a Saturday paper. "

The pair mounted the platform and shuffled into the stationhouse waiting room. A clerk worked behind the glass of his ticket box and a couple of newspapers hung on a rack. Max reached for copies of the day's Dominion Press and Murderer's Bay... there were no copies of the Argus.

“Good afternoon,” he called to the clerk. “Has someone forgotten to put the Argus out?”

“Not at all,” came the reply. “It has been put out. Twice. And sold out both times!”

That was a little surprising, as it was normally the Dominion that flew out the door to leave the Argus moldering.

“How so? Is there some big news?” called Wiremu.

“Beats me,” came the reply from the clerk. “My own copy sold before I had a chance to see.”

“Bit of a puzzle,” reflected Max, carrying a copy of the Dominion to the counter.

“For sure,” agreed the clerk, taking his money. “One would think that anything news worthy would be in the Dominion Press also. You have a look.”

Max took a seat and spread the paper on the white painted table before him, while Wiremu wandered off to see if he could find a couple of cups of coffee from the station tea lady.

“Valley Line Express-O!” he announced returning, a few minutes later, with a steaming, thick white china cup in each hand. “Anything?” he asked, placing a cup next to his friend.

“Thanks. Nothing major. Greece declared war on Turkey. Some chap called George W. Coy has built what is being called the first commercial telephone exchange in New Haven, Connecticut. Says the switchboard was made from teapot lid handles, carriage bolts and bustle wire. He sounds like our Dickie. Apparently it can take two simultaneous conversations.”

“Interesting but not earth shattering,” remarked Wiremu. Max took a sip of coffee and turned the page.

“Maybe this is it,” he suggested, placing his finger on the block on machine type. “Sounds a little more like the Argus. A Strange Phenomenon from The Denison Daily News, wherever that is, some place in the United States, dated January 25, 1878. From Mr. John Martin, a farmer who lives some six miles south of this city, we learn the following strange story: Tuesday morning while out hunting, his attention was directed to a dark object high up in the southern sky. The peculiar shape and velocity with which the object seemed to approach riveted his attention and he strained his eyes to discover its character.

When first noticed, it appeared to be about the size of an orange, which continued to grow in size. After gazing at it for some time Mr. Martin became blind from long looking and left off viewing it for a time in order to rest his eyes. On resuming his view, the object was almost overhead and had increased considerably in size, and appeared to be going through space at wonderful speed.

When directly over him it was about the size of a large saucer and was evidently at great height. Mr. Martin thought it resembled, as well as he could judge, a balloon. It went as rapidly as it had come and was soon lost to sight in the heavenly skies. Mr. Martin is a gentleman of undoubted veracity and this strange occurrence, if it was not a balloon, deserves the attention of our scientists."

“Right,” said Wiremu sceptically. “A flying saucer?”

“Yeah maybe not,” agreed Max. The remaining pages were populated by other less dramatic trivia from around the Dominion and world. Max was about to give up when Wiremu spotted a small headline on a narrow side column.

“Here what is this? Army in League with Robots!”

Max followed Wiremu's pointing finger and read aloud the text indicated.

“After negotiations with Milligan & Co, the owners of the newly formed Dominion League of Robot Wars, the Royal New Zealand Army Brigade has announced that it will be offering a prize of two hundred pounds sterling to the team, who is victorious in the upcoming league, while operating a machine that is controlled manually by an on-board pilot. Details of this interesting turn of events to follow in subsequent publications.”

Wiremu whistled a long note and they both sat back from the paper to regard one another.

“Interesting turn of events my ass. That has turned the whole thing on its head!”

“That's it isn't it,” began Max. “I bet you my... that the Argus got the scoop on this one and ran it as their cover story. They've sold a copy to every student, engineer, and school boy in the entire Dominion!”

Max wondered what Harriet would be doing right now. Wiremu slapped the table and laughed.

“They are going to fight each other in machines... robots... driven by real people! This I have to see!” And as they laughed at the wonder and excitement of it, a steam whistle peeped from across the far side of the Kaituna River.

As Wiremu and Max came across the arch back of the foot bridge, the last of the Chinese stall holders were loading their unsold produce onto the flat deck wagon at the rear of a small narrow-gauge train that waited quietly next to their shelters. When their wooden boxes were secured they climbed aboard and found seats on the two wagons provided for that service. Wang stood beside the locomotive and waved as his friends approached.

“Hiya Wang,” called Max. “Nice train.”

“Hello gentlemen. Climb on board.” Wang smiled broadly.

Max was surprised by the train. Last time he had been to the market the train he had seen was made up from a couple of dilapidated wagons pulled by an old, hissing, cab-less locomotive that was a relic from the line's original logging duties. But now a smart dark green 0-4-0 locomotive of the 'Wren' pattern stood proudly at the head of an equally well-presented train. The edges of its little green saddle tank were picked out in white and red pin stripes and its brass fittings were polished to a golden lustre and the opened sided passenger wagons were clean and newly painted.

The friends shook hands and climbed aboard the first carriage, directly behind the loco.

“Do we need to buy a ticket?” inquired Max, as the train set off.

“Not today,” responded Wang. “I'm so glad you two have come. It's going to be a great night.”

“We are more than happy to be here,” responded Wiremu, speaking Max's thoughts also. Although he didn't really know what to expect, having never been to Chinatin before. His imaginings vacillated between images of a few old men sitting around in a drab courtyard playing chess to great parades of joyous revellers bedecked in colourful oriental raiment passing though terracotta palaces. Either way he was happy for the adventure.

They rumbled slowly across partially cleared farm land. The wagon in which they rode had a covered top but was open to the weather from all four sides. The friends sat two across, there was no room for more, although the little Chinese ladies behind them managed three. Max, still puzzled by where the locomotive had come from, peered forward to get a better look. The Chinese Engineer blew the cute peep whistle and a family of dark blue Pūkeko or swamp hen stalked off the track up ahead. The women in the seat behind started chatting excitedly.

“They want to catch those for their cook pots,” Wang translated with a smile.

“They'd make better boot laces,” informed Wiremu. “Full of sinews and tough as leather.”

Max gave a chuckle and returned to studying the locomotive. He leant out a bit so his eyes could focus on the oval bronze 'work plate' affixed to the side of the cab. To his surprise it read 'Leith Engineering Ltd, under licence from Kerr, Stuart & Co, Ltd. London & Stoke.' Leaning back in, he remarked to the other two;

“Leith Engineering. Some corporate sponsorship or has Chinatin found the motherlode?”

“Could be,” remarked Wang. “It was delivered last month. Works a treat. The old puffer was well past its prime.”

“I can imagine. But how...”

“I don't really know,” interrupted Wang, maybe a little too quickly. Then slowing his pace added, “It and its carriages just arrived one day. A Valley Line company crane lifted it across the river. Some men from the settlement, Chinatown that is, tipped the old loco off the tracks and replaced it with this. They've used it ever since and nobody is complaining.”

Max nodded. He had no idea how civic life was structured in Chinatin or how the people there were governed. Whether they paid some tax to be able to purchase such things as railway locomotives.

Intrigued, he asked;

“Who's in charge in Chinatin? You know the boss?”

Wang locked eyes with him and said quietly in a casual tone that did not match his look;

“Not here.”

Chinatin came into view well before the little train reached it. Again, Max was surprised. He had seen the settlement before from his carriage window when traveling on the Valley Line between Kaituna and Riverdale, at a distance of maybe a mile and a half away. It had always appeared a brown smudge of buildings, hung over by a pall of grey blue smoke. That much was still true, but he simply hadn’t expected it to be as large as the close-up view was now revealing.

Mono-coloured wood brown buildings of all shapes and sizes choked the mouth of the Kaituna Gorge and seemed to spill out from the ravine in the bush clad mountains and onto the valley floor like brown beans from a ruptured sack. And although the town was built close with few buildings away from the main throng, single huts could be seen beyond, clinging to the gorge's partially forested sides.

Nearer the settlement their train chugged between tidy vegetable plots and muddy pig stalls. The few workers who were about in the fields didn't bother unbending from their toil to regard the passing train.

There wasn't any formal station at Chinatin. But as they came alongside the first of the towns buildings the engineer simply shut off steam and applied the brakes. As soon as the train began to slow all the Chinese passengers disembarked, dragging their unsold produce after them. So that when the little train did finally come to a complete standstill, just before the rails disappeared under the mud of what appeared to be the main street, only Max, Wiremu and Wang remained on board.

“Thank you,” called Wiremu to the engineer, as he followed his friends off. The driver, who could hardly manage a grunt in response, only sounded his peep whistle two high notes. Nor was their arrival greeted by a gaily painted board proclaiming; 'Welcome to Chinatown.'

“Here we are,” stated Max needlessly, as he and Wiremu peered into the street that opened in front of them, before it curved out of sight within the wooden depths of the town.

There were a number of people going about their business, and as they watched a boy led a large group of noisy quacking ducks down the street and across their path. Max recognised a couple of native 'Greys' happily waddling along with the imported Mallards, ugly Muscovys and stark white Pekins.

“Everyone’s busy getting ready,” confirmed Wang. “Come on, let’s go.”

But as the three friends set off a burst of staccato gun fire suddenly erupted from somewhere in front of them! Max and Wiremu froze.

“Fireworks!" laughed Wang, turning back to look at his guests. "You'll need to get used to that.”

“Pohas” confirmed Wiremu with a weak smile.

Although it was all new to him, Max tried not stare at what he saw. He didn't feel particularly comfortable. Unlike in the Aorere Pā, here there were people everywhere. However only the youngest of them would actually meet his eye, and these would stare well past the point of rudeness. Clearly the novelty value of seeing both a white colonist and a Māori native at the same time was rather high.

It wasn't that the adults hadn't seen them walking up their street. The fact that none looked their way, the sheer purposefulness of it, showed that their presence had been well noted. Wang noticed too and reassured his friends that it was just a confused politeness on behalf of the Chinese. It was not that they were not welcome, they were just not expected.

The sudden and regular crackling explosions from the strings of little red fireworks, which people hung from their balconies, didn't help to settle Max's nerves either. 'Double Happys' Wang called them. And they went off like a high-speed Gatling Gun. But most unnerving was the thing that Wang told them, after bringing them to a standstill out in the middle of the street.

“Why do we need to talk out here,” asked Wiremu, a little puzzled by the exposed location.

“Because to pull you aside will raise suspicion,” answered Wang. “No one tells hidden things out in the open like this. But to make a private huddle against a walk will draw every ear to us. Here we speak only of the rain or the sun, surely.”

“Hidden things?” Max lifted an eye brow.

“Only an answer to your earlier question.”

“About who the boss is?”

“Indeed. But you two relax. There is no danger,” entreated Wang. The fact that they stood in the middle of the street, unable to speak freely wherever they chose seemed to say otherwise. “At least wait until you have eaten the food. Everything will change then.” Wang said this last with an expansive sweep of his arms that bought a guarded smile to Max's face. He was starting to feel hungry. “You asked about who was in charge...” continued Wang, turning to Max. "How can I put this? Chinese people can't really be governed or ruled as you understand it. The numbers have always been so vast. They must be blessed, threatened, manipulated, or cowered. They act and react from how they understand their traditions, superstitions, vulnerabilities, and loyalties. Here, although far smaller than back in Hong Kong or Chungshan, these things are no different.”

“Chinatin has no system of governance?” asked Wiremu, a little impatiently, clearly trying to understand what he was hearing.

“Not as you would understand it,” conceded Wang. “Chinatown is, is... over-shadowed by...” this time his eyes did dart about warily, “...the Tong.”

Max had a fleeting mental image of a massive pair of blacksmiths tweezers hovering over the town.

“You have lost me,” he said. It was starting to feel like talking with Dickie. Wang licked his lips and looked a little nervous.

“I had hoped you would have understood.”

“Sorry Wang, this is all new to us,” said Wiremu kindly.

“No I am sorry, I have assumed too much. I should have informed you of the subtleties back at University. I thought you would have known.” Then he suddenly clapped them both on the back and laughed as if they had shared a great joke. “Come along now. Let us walk again. We are drawing looks.”

Max was mindful enough not to glance around in search for their watchers. He knew about watching people from his own games of spy. It was crucial not to be caught watching one's watchers.

“Here, what are these?” asked Max, leading the others to a shop front hung with the glazed and roasted bodies of many ducks.

“There is no danger,” Wang repeated. “These things are just not discussed. They are simply known and accepted. Wait until after food, things will be different then.”

Max nodded.

“And these?” He pointed to a steaming cauldron of smelly, dark olive-coloured eggs.

“Ah, they are called virgin boy urine eggs.”

Even by five o’clock on a summer afternoon Chinatin was deep in shadow. Hot rays from the westering sun still lit the eastern side of the valley, including the lucrative Goldfield Hills, firing them with a warm blaze in keeping with their name. But there in the lee of the Wakamarama range the warm night was already creeping in.

Wang had promised that his friends would meet his Grandfather at the best restaurant in town, The Golden Dragon. It stood before them now. One of the larger buildings they had encountered in their short sojourn in Chinatin. Like all the others, it was clad in rough sawn timber, with wooden shingles on the roof. But Max was pleased to see, the corners of the roof had somehow been turned up in that classic Asian style. This at least fitted his expectation nicely.

The foundation was made from stacked and mortared river boulders and there was a short climb up wide steps to the front doors. Those doors, large, double, and bright red, had been thrown open to the street, and from the room behind them came some of the more pleasing smells of the day. Max was keen to enter and almost had his foot on the bottom step before Wang, their host.

For the last hour Max had felt like they were no longer in The Dominion, but like in some children's tale, where a hole is dug in the back yard, they had fallen through the middle of the earth and come out in China. Everything was different.

It was only when he looked up at the hills around them and saw the tree ferns and red flowering rata that he could believe where they truly were. At the Pā it had been all fresh air, sky and rushing river, wood and flax, dirt, and bright green willow saplings. Here it was close, alleyways, people pushing wheel carts, walls, smoke, and smells, with little view of the world around.

The smell was so different too. It was a strong, but strangely comforting, while at the same time foreign. It simply said 'people' and hinted at all the aspects of their life together; the homely, the mundane, and the vulgar. Max forced himself to not try to discern the various sources, for some was just stink. But some, like those at the doorway to the Golden Dragon, were the tang and sweetness of exotic, mouthwatering spices.

Wang led them up the step and once beyond the door they found themselves at the edge of an expansive, dimly lit room. Many people, mainly men, crowded around large circular tables. Some groups rocked back in their chairs talking loudly, their meals; well finished and now just a collection of empty bowls on the Lazy Susan in their midst. While others leant in to the earnest work of their food, backs bent and bowls held only inches from their mouths, chopsticks racing the short gap. Many of the men wore long queue plaits down their backs, but that style wasn't exclusive. Red paper lanterns with golden hearts hung over the whole scene casting it in a warm glow.

While they waited to be seated Wang muttered to the other two.

“A tong is maybe a little like a gang. They hold the power here in Chinatown. We need not mention it again.”

Max nodded. Questions were clearly not wanted or were perhaps unwise, maybe dangerous. Apparently everything was going to change after the food, according to Wang.

“Who is this?” Max asked, pointing to a painting of a black bearded ancient on the wall next to them. Wang glanced at the picture.

“That is the great Guan Yu.”

Max felt that he should know something about who that was. But he was saved from any embarrassment by the arrival of a lady who had been winding her way across the crowded room toward them. Max's entire attention was suddenly captured by her and old Guan Yu, whoever he may have been, was forgotten.

The traditional silk dress she wore shimmered in golden waves as she moved. Its close-fitting length covering her from high collared neck to hidden ankles. However, her slender arms remained bare below short shoulder sleeves. Glossy black hair was drawn up into a bun atop her head, to be thrust though with two ornately carved sticks, revealing her small ears and the flawless pale skin of her neck.

She offered a greeting in Cantonese and bowed demurely. Wang responded in kind while Max and Wiremu continued to furtively study their hostess. Her red painted lips smiled graciously, and her large eyes sparkled while she listened to Wang's instructions and endured the other two's scrutiny. Then with another slight bow she turned and led them across the room to their table. En route Max spied no less than six other Chinese beauties, likewise attired and waiting the loaded tables.

Wang's Grandfather was a stooped little man with a face, wrinkled like a raisin, that was at once both ancient and childlike. He stood when the three boys approached, welcoming each with a double handed handshake. Wang translated.

“Welcome young Chief.” To Wiremu.

“Welcome friend.” To Max. And a greeting untranslated to Wang. Wang returned the newcomers greetings and the Grandfather gestured for them to sit.

When they were seated Max placed his bowler hat on the floor under his chair and loosened a couple of the higher buttons on his waistcoat. Wang's Grandfather peered at the young men keenly.

“Grandfather asks that you call him Jo Foo,” Wang informed them. “It means Grandfather.”

“Thank you for hosting us here Jo Foo,” Max responded. Wang translated this and the return message.

“You are most welcome. What do you think of our Golden Dragon?”

Max and Wiremu returned to studying the interior of the restaurant for a moment. But no matter how hard they tried their eyes seemed to only focus on the golden waitresses.

“Chuí xián sān chǐ,” said Jo Foo, without waiting for their response. Wiremu and Max looked to Wang, who sat with one eyebrow raised.

“He is speaking Mandarin now. It means; to drool over.”

Max gave an amused snort.

“Does he mean the restaurant...”

“Or the waitresses?” concluded Wiremu.

Jo Foo gave a happy laugh and rocked in his chair clapping his hands together.

“You decide,” answered Wang, with a small smile.

“Very nice sir,” answered Wiremu for them both.

The waitress who had attended them earlier made her way back to the table then.

"Good evening, gentlemen," she said sweetly in halting English, inclining her head graciously toward each of them. "My name is Chai Yenn. It is my pleasure to be your hostess for this evening."

"Good evening Chai Yenn," responded the young men at once. Then Jo Foo rattled off a long monologue to her, while she nodded silently, appearing to commit each item of his order to memory. Max leant in to Wang.

“What was he speaking before?”

“Cantonese of course. He likes to show off.”

“I don't want any of those boy virgin eggs.”

“Neither do I,” added Wiremu.

“But you will offend Grandfather's ancient customs if you refuse anything that is offered,” whispered Wang. Then at the other two's horrified expressions added, “I'm joking.”

“Don't!” hissed Max. “It doesn't suit you.”

Wang smiled self-consciously.

“The eggs are a snack. This is a banquet.”

Chai Yenn bowed to the table then and departed. After a short pause Jo Foo looked at Max and spoke again.

“He says that he hears that you are learning the sword. He would like to see you fight one day,” Wang translated.

“Tell him that I am only just starting out. But I hope that one day my bouts will be worthy of such public display. On that day I would be honoured by his presence.”

Wang relayed the words and Jo Foo laughed again and made a quick show of acting out a short flurry of sword play. Max found himself liking the little bald Chinaman at once. He had the suspicion that Jo Foo, even at his advanced age, still appreciated both attractive looking women and heroics.

Chai Yenn reappeared with a white china tea pot and four little cups. She placed a cup in front of each of them and poured the tea.

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“Cheers!” managed Jo Foo, and they all sipped at their portions of piping hot green tea.

Max followed Jo Foo's eyes as he watched their waitress retreat once more.

As she drew near to the far side of the room and what Max reasoned must be the door to the kitchen she was intercepted by a second waitress. This second girl spoke earnestly to the first and seemed to incline her head toward the table where the friends sat. The first, who Max regarded as their waitress, bobbed her head a couple of times in apparent acquiescence to what she was being told and went on her way. The newcomer remained a moment longer, hands on hips, watching them. Then she too turned on her heel and entered the kitchen. She seemed vaguely familiar.

Jo Foo poured a second round of tea. As he finished this task a steaming bamboo box, four small white plates, four sets of chopsticks and a bowl of black dipping source were placed in the middle of the table by the returning waitress. Jo Foo spoke thanks on behalf of the table, and as she withdrew Max studied her face.

“Hey wasn't that...” began Wiremu.

“I see our waitress has been upgraded,” translated Wang for his Grandfather.

“Jasmine,” answered Max, hiding his surprise.

Then he glanced around for the girl who had first met them at the door, Chai Yenn. He found her working the far side of the room and for the briefest of seconds their eyes met before she looked away. Max imagined that she looked somehow... disappointed.

At first Max had feared that the content of the bamboo box was the entirety of their meal. But before they had finished the steamed white dumplings with ground meat and vegetable centres a second dish had arrived and then a third. Egg Noodles followed, crispy chicken, duck pancakes, chilli and peppered pork chops, fried green beans, fried rice, and a whole fish. The last was placed on the table with its head pointing at Yo Foo. But he quietly reached forward and turned the plate so that it faced Wiremu. Max tried everything.

When the meal finished, with a bowl of almond soup and a pile of sweet dumplings each, Max was stuffed. He had tried to only eat from the plates that he particularly enjoyed, but that prejudice hadn’t eliminated one single platter.

The four of them rocked back in their chairs and surveyed the carnage in the centre of the table. The meal had been amazing and both Wiremu and Max had made sure that they spoke loudly their delight to Jo Foo as they tried each new dish.

Jasmine had attended their table the whole evening, bringing dishes and clearing away dirty plates, keeping the tea pot fresh. She had only engaged them once, when Max had directly wished her a good evening near the start of the meal.

“Good evening Master Skilton,” she had replied formally. “Good evening Master Marino, Master Peng, Mr Wang.” Then she had placed the dish she was carrying and retreated again. Max had noted the other waitresses talking with their particular patrons. Some lingering for short times to listen to the stories or jokes they were being told. He even spied their original waitress resting a hand on the shoulder of one of her new customers while she spoke with his table, her eyes still sparkling. But Jasmine had remained aloof. Although she was never far from the table and Max had a feeling that she watched them when she felt herself unobserved.

“That one will snap your sword,” Jo Foo had said to Max, via Wang, once Jasmine had gone again.

At the end Jo Foo had stood and given each of them a double-handed handshake, chattering away the whole time and bobbing his head happily. The boys had risen to meet him and repeated their thanks for the meal. Wang had informed them earlier that his grandfather would be standing the entire bill, and this was a situation that they should not argue, no matter how uncomfortable they found it.

“Grandfather has to go now and finish the final touches on the fireworks. He hopes you enjoyed the meal, wishes you a happy and prosperous new year and trusts you will enjoy the show,” proclaimed Wang. The friends waved him goodbye and flopped back into their chairs as the old man hobbled away.

“He is helping with the fireworks?” clarified Max.

“Indeed,” answered Wang. Then clearing his throat added, “He is in fact a master fireworks maker.”

“Really? That is rather interesting,” reflected Wiremu.

“It is what he did before we left China. So, for most of his life. Tonight's display will be largely his work.” Another string of double happies crackled outside. “Not those. The big ones!” Max laughed. He was getting used to the sudden explosions.

“But fireworks are expensive,” mused Wiremu. “Who pays for tonight's show?”

“Here we go again,” sighed Wang, good-naturally. “The same person who paid for your train ride.”

“And who was that?”

Wang looked at them both with clear reluctance, then lent forward conspiratorially.

“The Kestrel.”

“The who?”

“The leader of... The Tong.” Wang, it seemed, had reviewed his earlier aversion to speaking on this subject. “Which is someone we do not speak of.”

Apparently not.

“This also is very interesting. But we will respect your wishes. We are after all in your town.” Wiremu was kinder than Max felt.

“But you had better tell us everything on Monday! Or I'll...” threatened Max jokingly, brandishing the back of his hand for effect. “...wing chun and all.”

The three of them laughed.

“Tell me,” Max continued. “Do you get the Murderer's Bay Argus delivered here?”

Wang shook his head.

“Nor the Dominion Press. Why”

“Might be some big news,” said Wiremu.

“We aren't sure. But it had sold out down at the station,” supplied Max.

“I guess you will find out tomorrow. Listen, the parade will be along soon. We'll head out onto the street to watch it pass. Then I'll take you to your seats so you can see the show. I'll have to leave you there and go get ready for my part.”

“Fine with me,” said Max and the three friends stood.

When they wandered back out to the street Max saw at once that everything was indeed different. Wang's words from earlier returned to him; wait until you have eaten the food. Everything will change then. Max had just assumed that Wang was being a mother; you'll feel better when you have had something to eat.

But everything was different. The three friends smiled at each other. It was dark but the street had been hung with bright shining paper lanterns. Crowds of people walked past, but now they looked Wiremu and Max full in the face and called;

“Gong Hei Fard Choy,” Happy New Year, Congratulations and be prosperous.

Men shook their hands warmly and homely old women thrust sugar candy and glazed walnuts at them. The friends laughed at the surprising joy of it and called back, “Happy New Year!”

There was a general slow movement of people on up the street, but when loud drums and crashing cymbals sounded everyone moved to the sides. Through the parting crowd, borne atop long poles, came a dragon. Its head was massive and swung from side to side with the music. Its gaping mouth snapped open and shut, as large, heavy lashed eyes blinked. Two men were needed to support and operate the head, while another nine held aloft and moved the long snake-like body that followed behind. The dragon appeared to be chasing a ball, also held aloft on a long stick. With rhythmic, wave-like movements the great cloth creature moved past, surrounded by running children and musicians. Next came a lion of similar but shorter construction, prancing, bowing, and pouncing. And when it had passed the people poured back onto the street and followed along behind. More ‘double happys’ went off in long exploding strings, lollies were passed about and greetings exchanged. Max and Wiremu gave away most of their accumulated sweets to the children who flocked around them.

Then the parade spilt into a large clearing in the middle of the settlement and people went to join those already seated on an earthen embankment. The dragon and the lion continued to move about in the open space, firework induced smoke now pouring from the dragon's mouth. The drums and cymbals banging away all the while.

“This way,” commanded Wang, leading his two friends toward a row of seats right at the edge of the performance area and in front of all the people. “Here, sit here,” he said almost pushing them down into chairs at the near leftmost end of the long arc.

“Are you sure,” queried Max, surprised at their placement in the proceedings.

“Of course. These are the two seats allotted to Jo Foo as thanks for his part in the performance.” Wang squatted down in front of them as he spoke. “Listen, don't go wandering off. Stay here and I'll come back and find you after the show.”

“Where would we go?” asked Max. Wang shrugged and looked off down the line of seats. Max followed his look. There in the middle of the row sat a tall, grey bearded Englishman, black top hat in place. In the seat beyond him, a small fascinator top hat perched on a pretty red head...

“Harriet!” gasped Max, taken off guard by the sudden discovery of his fancy right in the heart of Chinatin. “And Mr Leith,” he added somewhat sheepishly.

He was at a total loss for a long moment and couldn't think of a reason why this person, the one person in the world he would most want to see here or anywhere, was in fact here. He turned to ask Wang, who was still looking down the row, studying the father and daughter, and it turns out the Chinaman seated beyond them. But Wang, without turning his head back, spoke first;

“I wouldn't rush down there to pay my regards Max.”

“Why is that?” Max's mind had indeed already been racing to formulate such a plan.

Surely she would be pleased to see another white face in such a setting and a natural conversation would follow. It is finally a chance to engineer a legitimate meeting. It would even be rude not to formally acknowledge her presence. His brain worked fast, flipping over the ironic contradiction of engineering a legitimate meeting, amused at the use of the word engineering when referring to Harriet, getting stuck on the question; why is she here? And repeating, unanswered; why is she here? Why is she here?

“The thing is...” continued Wang “...the man sitting next to your Harriet and her Father is Fong Wai Sung.” This name didn't mean anything to Max, which Wang had anticipated. “He is what you could, at a push, call a chemist. But the title 'drug dealer' is more fitting, in my opinion.”

“What?” spat Max in semi-rhetorical confusion. Nothing seemed to be matching up.

Is Harriet sick? An addict? Maybe her Father, Coval, needs some special medical attention? Some traditional Chinese medicine? He appeared to be in good health. Maybe Wang was right, and Harriet would not welcome the intrusion on her privacy. Wang swung his eyes back to Max and fixed him with an earnest stare.

“Fong Wai Sung is the brother of the one known as The Kestrel. He is a dangerous man, high up in the Tong.” Wang stood, but gripped Max by the arm. “Look I have to go. But I'm serious. I don't know why she is down there, in such company, but leave well alone.”

“As you say,” nodded Max, throwing another look down the line. Fong Wai Sung was leant close, talking across Harriet, to Coval Leith.

“Good,” responded Wang, some small sign of relief sneaking into his features. “Enjoy the show. I'll see you here afterwards.”

“Will we recognise you?” asked Wiremu.

“I'll be the one in blue,” called Wang over his shoulder as he moved away toward the wall of flags and screens at the far side of the performance area.

“Bit of a mystery,” concluded Wiremu, after Wang had gone. “It's hard to imagine why someone like Leith would have any connection with someone like that.... ….a leading member of a Cantonese gang.”

Max shook his head and let the air rush out his mouth with the whoosh. He was recalling something Dickie had said about Gilbert Lavisham inhabiting a dangerous double world. He wondered if what they were seeing here was somehow part of this other world. Although Max had, a long time ago, managed to convince himself that Harriet would not be involved in such things, that she was ignorant of Lavisham's true nefarious nature.

She had to be or surely she would have distanced herself from him before now.

Any other alternatives, such as her awareness or compliance, were too grim to contemplate and Max would not allow himself to consider them. The chosen blindness of infatuation. He slunk down in his chair and tried to study Fong Wai Sung.

The brother of this man that Wang called The Kestrel was in his middle years, slight of body and hard of face. He wore unremarkable dark robes, navy blue or charcoal. His drooping moustache fell either side of his mouth and dropped well below his chin. He was bald on top, but had grown his sides long, so that his dark hair rested on his shoulders. He was not a man that filled the heart with joy to behold. Now he sat with his fingers steepled before him, head to the side, still speaking with Mr Leith, but clearly deep in thought. Then as Max watched, even from the distance, he saw Sung's eyes slowly traverse the entire length of Harriet's body.

It was not completely the look of lust that Max at once feared it to be. More a cold calculating, as if he was examining a race horse for purchase. Still, it made that dead stone form heavy in Max's belly and he looked away, keen now to pick up the conversation with Wiremu.

“Did you think it was passing strange that the little train we rode in on was newly built, under licence, by the Leith Engineering Company? I mean, why would they bother fitting out a single narrow-gauge engine when they have massive contracts with Eastern, Coastal & Main, the Scots, exports to Australia and are pursuing, by all accounts, the Haast Engine tender?”

“Good question,” responded Wiremu as he watched the dragon and lion depart the performance area and oil lamps flicker into life around the perimeter. “Maybe it was simply a project for apprentices. Maybe a gift, a charity to a quaint old railway.”

“Maybe,” said Max, unconvinced. There was a story here. Chinatin felt full of half told stories.

A hush fell over the crowd then and with it a new excited expectation grew. The semi-circle of giant silk flags at the back of the performance area rolled lazily as a warm breeze moved through them. Orange flames from oil lamps at the base of each flag pole illuminated the performance area and danced as the wind passed. For a moment in the near silence the haunting call of a Morepork, that little native owl, could be heard from the surrounding hills.

Max looked out across the dirt floor and saw that a single figure had appeared near the middle, walking forwards. It was a young girl, all clad in yellow, long-sleeved shirt and pants. She came on to stand, feet together, in the centre of the ring. Despite all his confusion about Harriet, her nearness, and the sinking feeling that her life was so much more separate from his than he had thought, he was engaged. The Chinese girl, maybe only eleven or twelve years in age, stood as still and straight as a beanpole, arms by her sides.

All at once loud cymbals crashed out four times; Tsch! Tsch! Tsch! Tsch! And as they did the girl must have flung her feet up and somehow over her head, so that she landed, feet together, having completed a backwards somersault, in exactly the same spot as she had started. Before the crowd could applaud the cymbals sounded again, Tsch! Tsch! Tsch! Tsch! and again she was up and over. But this time the musicians did not stop at four beats, instead they smashed on. Likewise, the little somersaulting girl matched the beat. Around and round, legs scissoring back, over, and down, landing where they started, almost becoming a blur of continuous movement. Now the crowd was cheering and clapping. Still she spun on.

Then there was a second movement from back in the shadows.

The cheering died away, although the girl somersaulted on, as the crowd tried to discern who the newcomer was. He strolled forward casually, his bare arms folded across his broad chest. From behind his right ear the hilt of a great sword protruded from its scabbard. Wiremu looked at Max, worry itched on his face, as the brute unslung the cruel looking weapon.

“What have we come to?” he asked, the dread plain to hear in his voice.

The cymbals came to a sudden stop and only then did the girl cease her somersaulting. People in the crowd were starting to call warnings to her. She lifted a small hand to her ear and innocently pantomimed not hearing. The people called louder. The executioner came forward fast now, the cold length of steel almost as long as she was tall, drawn back. She was still smiling and waving as the great scythe swept forward intent on cutting her in two. Wiremu gripped the arms of his chair about to scream out and Max's hands involuntarily shot to cover his eyes, as... as the small yellow girl somersaulted back, sailing safely over the silver arc of death, so that only the red ribbon was cut from the end of her long black pony tail. The crowd cheered their approval and relief flooded Max's body, as all his in-held breath raced out.

“They had us there,” confessed Wiremu, looking relieved and sheepish for being so taken in. The girl renewed her somersaulting and now a loud booming drum replaced the cymbals. The blade swept past in time with each flip and of course it was a well-rehearsed act. Impressive all the same.

“You have to wonder how long she can keep that up,” remarked Max a minute later when the blades-man and the gymnast were still going. Then Tsch! Tsch! Tsch! Tsch! The cymbals rung out again with four louder clashes.

From behind the screens and between the lamps at the back, two rows of flag carrying boys emerged at a run. They rushed into the performance area with a long loud shout on their lips, red silk flags flowing behind. They came from both sides, at a forty-five-degree angle from each other, ten boys in each row, so that as they ran the two lines had to inter-mesh and pass each other at the middle. It was a sudden and awesome sight that overloaded the senses with colour and sound, the waving flags, shouting voices, running boys. They completely enveloped the first two performers in a wall of spinning, waving red flags and blue silk clothes.

“I wonder which one is Wang?” shouted Wiremu over the cymbals. “They are all wearing blue!”

Max gave a chuckle at that. The cymbals were replaced once more by pounding drums and some kind of high noted slow fiddle. As the performers worked through their synchronised flag routine Max studied their faces. It took him a good couple of minutes to find Wang and as soon as he had the flag boys were replaced by a great shouting rush of orange garbed swordsmen. And thus, the show went, a noisy spectacular of waving flags, flowing silk, running bodies, dancers, umbrellas, flags, clowns on stilts, ribbons, face paint, tumblers, coloured smoke, martial artists, the tunes of flute, drum, fiddle and the ever present clash of cymbals to announce change and action. Max continued, from time to time, to study Harriet. She, however, remained focused, rapt in the unfolding drama of the festival. After more than an hour and a half of constant, stunning extravaganza, the final climatic scene began.

As purple smoke drifted across the performance area a single bright green spark shot up into the dark sky. It hung there for a moment, an alien star against the backdrop of the Milky Way, before detonating with such a blast that Max could feel the shock wave against his chest. A great green flower blossomed, and people cried out in appreciation. Now the dirt floor was crowded with green silk flags, borne aloft by running men. No sooner had the green dominated the space than it was quickly replaced by a team of shouting yellow runners. The choreographers threw everything at the grand finale and in moments the stage was crowded with elements from all the previous items working together in seamless unity. Stilt men stalked above kung fu fighters, swordsmen with spinning silver Dao sabres rushed in to replace parasol twirling dancers only to be replaced themselves by more shouting flagmen. The continued emergence of pattern out of apparent chaos dazzled the mind and pleased the eye. The dragon was back and with him the lion and now also a tiger. In the sky above the fireworks escalated in number and intensity, bursting out with loud bangs, crackles and whistling screams, filling the night sky with colours both vivid and unearthly. On the ground, hidden behind the fabric screens, the musicians drove their drums and brass cymbals to a frenzy.

The blue swordsmen were back.

“There's Wang,” called Max, trying to point him out to Wiremu. As another line of orange sword wielders formed up at an angle opposite his group. They all spun their blades in unison. Then at some unseen signal and with a shout the two groups rushed at each other. Their spinning swords did not stop, but nor did they touch, as they flew between each other. The crowd clapped. The two lines turned, gave a loud shout, and ran at each other again. This time every sword touched as they passed between, and the sound of ringing steel filled the night.

Further back the flag bearers parted and a third, purple clad, team appeared. Now three groups rushed at each other successfully passing without a touch and forming a triangle. Max was impressed and couldn't help wondering what Captain von Tempsky would think of it all. More skyrockets screamed into the darkness, blazing out a moment later in multicoloured blooms. Jo Foo was doing himself proud.

Max glanced at Harriet. Her head was tilted back as she looked skyward, watching the fireworks, her elegant throat exposed to his view. The swordsmen ran again, the triangle collapsing back on itself. This was the pass that would have them contacting steel. The lines meshed together. The sound of individual blades meeting rang down the rows of running men as they came together, mimicking a string of 'double happys' igniting. The noise drew Harriet's attention back to the performance. Down came the swords. Then somewhere in the middle there was a snag, a quick break in the rhythm, a missed beat, two swords not making contact. It was only a split second, then the lines were through each other and past - back to their original starting points.

But for one man. One man in blue, who, as the lines of his fellows moved away, fell, sprawled, spraying blood onto the dirt.

Max watched as if looking down his own private viewing scope, the edges all blurred. He saw the life flow out of the man, his neck cut with a great crimson smile. He saw even as the killed man spun and fell, a little brown wheel fall from him and bounce across the dirt. Across the dirt, in the unearthly light of fireworks, faithfully rolling away, to come to rest against the leather boot of Harriet Leith.

There was shocked silence then. The musicians let their instruments go still. Many in the audience sat with their hands over their mouths. A final skyrocket hissed away and popped overhead. Performers fled the stage. One blue swordsman rushed across to kneel by the fallen. With head bowed he touched the body. Then turning to regard Fong Wai Sung in the front row, he shook his head, before darting away again.

People were starting to stand and move now. Harriet reached down and retrieved the little wheel from by her foot. She held it up so she could examine it. Even from the distance of several yards Max could see a small hole though the middle.

Tsch! Tsch! Tsch! Tsch! The cymbals suddenly rung out loud in the hush. Everyone returned to their seats. Tsch! Tsch! Tsch! Tsch!

At the very back of the performance area a lone figure had appeared out of the swirling powder smoke. A new coldness crept into the night. Max and Wiremu peered around. No one spoke, but all appeared to shrink back, withdrawing within themselves. They seemed to understand something the two outsiders didn't.

Chapter 14 - The Year of the Tiger

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