Chapter 28
Wang
Peng Long Wang, known simply as Wang to his two friends, slid down from his seat on the small open sided railway wagon. He brushed off his grey suit pants as the Engineer needlessly announced their arrival at Chinatown with a single 'peep' of his whistle. Wang shouldered his burdens and entering the town, began the final leg of his daily journey home.
Some of those burdens took actual physical form, university accounting books and a sack of new bought kitchen supplies. These were slung over his back. In his sack, amongst the common staples, there was also a quantity of precious rice.
His Grandfather, Jo Foo, was one of those Chinese who claimed two stomachs. One for normal food and a second that could only be satisfied by rice. Therefore, he was always unsatisfied, for in New Zealand rice would not grow.
However, the store at Ealing Station did have limited import licences and could, on occasion, land a few sack of the white grain, from India. Usually, these imports were gobbled up by Chinatown's few restaurants and The Kestrel's Tongmen. But today Wang had managed to get his hand to a small portion. Tonight, he would cook Jo Foo one of his favourite dishes. With a slight stoop Wang trudged up the busy dirt street between drab wooden buildings.
He wasn't far into the press of people when his eyes, always furtively searching, noted a Tongman reclining in the shade of a street side porch. Wang didn't react or do anything to show that he had seen the watcher. Not that the man was hidden. The whole point was for him to be seen, for the Kestrel's power was maintained by people noticing his enforcers.
But when Wang needed to step aside for an old lady lumbering toward him under a load of laundry he altered his course slightly, to move away from the watcher.
“Good afternoon Professor,” the Tongman called.
Too late, unavoidable.
Wang kept his face passive and crossed to where the gangster now stood at the porch hand rail. Then without looking him in the eye, Wang placed an apple in the outstretched hand, and continued on his way. The Tongman, satisfied with the tax, returned to his seat and with a smile, sunk yellow teeth into his new apple.
Wang knew who stole the coin and bowl. It was obvious.
He was a little surprised that Max and Wiremu hadn't also guessed the thief's identity. However, their dimness was a relief. Wang worried that when his two friends figured it out or at least grew suspicious they would confront her directly. And this would be a very dangerous move. He would have a hard time protecting them after that.
He hoped that they would stay englamoured with her long enough for him to steer them to comparative safety, although on this front he appeared to be failing. Max and Wiremu were looking for trouble. To them it was all just the chance for a boyish story book adventure.
He hoped that the upcoming locomotive race and trip to Wanganui on the Northern Isle would distract them. The entertainments of the masked ball and robot battle should also serve to keep them busy, maybe even long enough for the danger to pass. He was thankful that the two would-be detectives had so little to go on and he sincerely doubted that the Searchers would let their hand be seen again.
Wang adjusted his sack. The path he was on led him through the town and into the mouth of the Kaituna Gorge. Here, with what small money he had left, he bought from a riverside stall, a meagre portion of chicken meat. Then, having all that was needed for the meal, he entered the diggings.
As always the shady gorge, with its river and forest, was alive with the sounds of men worrying at the earth for its gold. Pick axes struck rocks, boulders were rolled and heaved and neatly stacked, men called to one another. From black mine shafts in the hill's side came wooden rails, on which workers pushed small trolleys loaded with tailings. These were only briefly in the daylight before their contents was quickly dumped and the empty wagon returned below. Cradles were rocked and shovel loads of fines deposited in wet riffle-boxes. Between and around and beneath it all, the cold river rushed past.
Amongst the rock piles and trees, and built from both, were the rough shacks that the miners called their homes. Some had been constructed with care from pit sawn timber and salvaged corrugated iron, while others were just shelters made from logs leant over holes in the steep hillside, the gaps plugged with moss and mud. All of them, come winter, were cold, wet and miserable.
Wang didn't follow any road, there was none, just worn tracks through the ever-changing landscape of rocks and tree roots.
Although the sun had gone into the west, taken very early by the mountain range at whose feet they picked, there was still enough light to work. Come dark the gorge would fill with the blue grey smoke of cooking fires. Then in the evening the miners who were feeling the need, or rich, or forgetful, would make their way down to the opium dens of the town. Through vice or honest toil, they would all pay their tax to the Tong, and some would pay it twice over.
Finally Wang came to the hut that he shared with his Grandfather. It was built along way in, deep in 'the shadow', as the miners called the Kaituna Gorge, almost as far as 'The Forks' where the river came in from two tributaries and the trail began its steep climb over to the West Coast.
He knew that Jo Foo would still be down among the rocks and water of his claim and would stay there until it was too dark to see his hand in front of his face. Wang pulled aside the ragged curtain that served as a door and entered the hut. He didn't pause to survey the mean interior of his home but set right to lighting a cook fire in the hearth. At his back were the bunk cots where he and Jo Foo slept, to the side the small wooden table and chairs where they ate, next to these the cupboard with the false back.
Behind the cupboard was hid their valuables. There was not anything hidden from the Tong, as such a goal was near impossible. There was just things that it would be sad to lose to looters and thugs; spices, Wang's good shirt, a photo of his Grandmother and a portion of explosive powder for making fireworks. The Tong would take a dim view of this last item. Under normal circumstances Fong Wai Sung would allot Jo Foo a portion from the Tong stores if they wished him to build fireworks. But the grey dust was disguised within a pepper mill. Certainly, a thief would get his just deserts if he stole the grinder and used it for its intended purpose.
As Wang built the fire, he put aside the best piece of wood for the local Tongman. The log could dry by the fire overnight and he would pay the wood tax with it on the way to university in the morning. He rested a tin billy, full of water, on the grill above the flames, changed into his work clothes and departed.
Outside, the resident bush robin hopped from rotting log to moss covered rock. Wang paused to sweep his foot across a patch of leaf litter. The little grey bird fluttered down to land on thin legs and eat whatever bugs it's benevolent neighbour might have uncovered for it.
Wang picked his way down toward the river, between immovable slabs of stone, tree ferns and piles of clean tailings. He couldn't hear his Grandfather moving about among rocks.
He must already be washing out the day’s fines. A job done in silence, by the water’s edge, hunched over a pan, staring at the grit and iron sand, looking for the first of the beautiful 'colour' to show.
Wang sprung up onto a rock outcrop, the better to get a look across at the river. But Jo Foo wasn't working near the edge. He dropped back down and entered the trench that the pair of them had excavated by hand. Its high sides were made from round river stones, each one stacked in place once the gold bearing gravel in which it had sat was removed.
Where they had delved too deep the bottom of the ditch had filled with river water. In such places a log served as a temporary foot bridge. Wang light-footed easily across one such span. He hoped that his Grandfather was ready to come up to the hut, he was tired out and the light was failing. And like every night when he returned home he hoped that Yo Foo would welcome him with the news that he had found a nugget to rival the 'Lyell 108' and that all their troubles were over, and they wouldn't have to do this any-more.
“Jo Foo,” he called.
No answer. Jo Foo was old and would be somewhere near a loud rush of water.
“Jo Foo!”
Wang came to the river’s edge and end of their digging. Here was where they worked the 'pay dirt' so that the flow could carry the dross away. The riffle-box, pan and shovels were there. But no Jo Foo.
Strange.
Wang's Grandfather worked the whole day and never looked for a chance to slink off. This fact alone caused a shiver of panic to pass through Wang. Something bad had happened to him.
The Tong.
Always The Tong came to mind, but the hut hadn't been disturbed. Wang calmed himself. None of their secrets would be enough to make Jo Foo disappear.
Maybe he had been summoned to make skyrockets for some occasion.
But then he would have left a note at the hut and not his tools in the diggings. Wang looked off up the river, nothing. Then downstream... there was something white snagged against the stony shore!
A body, head back, half in the water...
Wang abandoned his disciplined pretence of not possessing a martial art and flew along the rocky bank, his feet a blur beneath him as they touched lightly on each round stone. Then wading into the water, gasping as the cold wet invaded his groin and stomach, he reached his Grandfather.
Jo Foo let out a small moan as Wang gripped him under the arms and dragged him from the water. The rocks had lost the warmth of the day, but still Wang had no choice but to lay his Grandfather on them.
“Dong,” freezing, cold, muttered the old man as Wang tried to rub some life back into his arthritic joints. But it was of little use, Jo Foo was soaking wet and cold to the bone. Pushing his fears aside Wang gripped his Grandfather by the wrist and hauled him up next to him, taking his weight across his own shoulders.
“Let's get you home.”
The old miner was near unconscious, his legs next to useless, it would be a long trip back to the fire.
* * *
When Max boarded the train the next morning Wang wasn't in their normal seat, nor anywhere else that he could see.
“Where is Wang?” asked Dickie, sitting down next to him.
“Not sure.”.
“Slept in?”
“Would be out of character. Mystery.”
“Indeed. Listen Max,” begun Dickie, clearly with something to say. “In a couple of days, I'm accompanying your Father, Professor Von Haast and their team of ornithologists on an expedition into the southern wilderness. We will be going ahead of the railway in an attempt to survey the range and habitat of Harpagornis moorei.... you know, The Haast Eagle.”
“Yes. Father was telling me last night over supper. Hopefully you will be back in time for the first round of the robot wars.”
“Hopefully. Although I'm sure to miss the Haast Engine time trials.”
“That would be a shame. And I doubt the two Professors would be put off for something like that. Father will be actively avoiding anything that features Jeremiah Lavisham strutting about in public spectacle.”
Dickie nodded his head in agreement and then fixed Max with a firm look that made the younger more than a little uncomfortable.
“About another mystery.”
“Go on,” said Max, in contradiction to the apprehension he felt. Dickie gave a slight sigh and lowered his voice.
“I trust that Wiremu found a good place to hide the Pou whenua?”
Max just managed to stop his mouth from falling open in surprise.
Is there any point in trying to lie to Dickie?
He gave the idea away, the Inventor clearly had him and knew him too well to swallow anything he could cook up on the hop.
“I think so,” he answered.
Dickie nodded.
“I have half a mind to scold the three of you, but see little point, especially as it now seems that you have succeed and carried the whole lark off without capture. And I'm quite sure that your fool heads would be too puffed up to hear any warning from me. I would let it rest and maybe even extend my amused congratulations...”
“It was masterfully done,” interrupted Max.
“...if but for one fact.”
“Which is?”
“The involvement of Alistair Stewart.”
Max nodded.
“That was unforeseen.”
“But maybe not unpredictable given the fact that I had alerted you to his new association with these Northerners.”
“Sure. But we got clean away. The thing is done.”
“Let us hope.”
Max studied Dickie for a moment, then decided to drop his defensiveness.
“Tell me what your concern is?”
Dickie gave another sigh.
“Listen, I admire you pluck, who wouldn't. But this Stewart is dangerous, real dangerous. What do you think would have happened if he had caught you?”
Max hadn’t thought about that much. Maybe he assumed that they would have been handed into the Gibbstown Constabulary.
“I know it was dangerous...” he wasn't about to tell Dickie that they were shot at, “...but nor was it just some lark. It was important... to Wiremu.”
“I can appreciate that. But what you have failed to grasp is that the Elizabeth is a fast ship, you could have been thrown in the hold and woken up next morning in Freeport or Wanganui or half
way to New South Wales. Need I say that if that had transpired... well you would have been beyond help, even for brother Gerald and his army friends.”
“I see,” said Max, glad anew that they had indeed escaped.
“I understand that Wiremu believes that these Northerners aren't playing games. It follows then that they would attract the likes of Stewart, one so well known for having little time for anything but the roughest entertainments.”
Max nodded his understanding and let his friend's words hang before responding.
“I believe the thing is concluded. We got clean away.” Not enough, Dickie needs more. “I know you have concerns that I will tangle with Gilbert Lavisham and by extension Stewart, over Harriet Leith. Let me reassure you that while I once had such plans, those days have passed.”
Dickie studied his face.
“Are you saying that your interest in Miss Leith has waned?”
“Been put to death more like.”
It wasn't quite true.
The night before, when Max had been adding the front pages of the Argus and Dominion Press to his collection of newspaper cuttings, he had come across the ones featuring Harriet Leith. The grainy photographics showed her standing atop her robot, arms wide, top hat at an angle and a mischievous smile on her face. All around her was the blur of a crowd of cheering students.
Max had sat on the edge of his bed and studied the pictures. The event seemed a life time ago, not a few short weeks. Then at once he was replaying their ride together to Salisbury on the front of the locomotive, how he had felt so alive and like they were the only two people in the whole universe and that for those hours he hadn't wanted to be anywhere else.
He missed her.
Or more he missed his imaginings of her, for really that's all he had ever had. It was his daydream of her that had kept him company those weeks of his infatuation, not the real Harriet. He had loved who he had imagined her to be, not who she had turned out to be. For in reality, she had made her assessment of him and found him wanting, turned him aside and walked away without a backwards glance. If anything, he missed being in love. The emotion of it was what the cruel truth had denied him.
Lifting his eyes from the squares of newspaper for a moment, he surveyed the gifts his friends had given him, arrayed as they were on the top of his bedside drawers. The Naval Cutlass dominated the collection; heavy and limited in its uses. A box of ninety-seven black handkerchiefs, a skilfully crafted iron mask and a small letter opener of Toledoese steel. This last he picked up and turned over in his hands. On the night of his birthday Dickie had made some allusion to the little sword having some connection to the Gothic Architect called Rowan. His insinuation had been that the connection was a romantic one.
Max doubted that very much. But he recalled how she, if it had been her, had stood in front of him after his brawl with Ginger. Wordlessly she had appeared, cleaned the blood from his lip with some tenderness and then withdrawn again. From what he had seen she was darkly beautiful; from what he had felt she was strangely powerful.
The narrative has been illicitly obtained; should you discover it on Amazon, report the violation.
“Here is an interesting thing,” announced Wiremu sitting down next to Dickie and Max. “Where is Wang?”
“We don't know,” replied Dickie. Max shook his head. The train drew out of Aorere Pā station.
“I guess he is allowed a day off,” shrugged Wiremu. But he returned Max's worried look in kind.
“What has you so interested?” asked Dickie, and Max wondered if he was going repeat his warnings about their midnight adventure.
“Well nothing other than a strange coincidence of calendar. I was filling mine out last night when I noticed this busy period coming up for Max and myself, particularly; Friday the fifth is the last day of term and that evening is the first meeting of the Dominion League of Robot Wars, this is followed the next night by the Gothic Masquerade Ball...”
“Two rather busy nights,” agreed Max.
“Yes. But haven't you read the memo from Māori Studies?”
Max shook his head. “I've been a little distracted.”
“Here,” said Wiremu producing a slip of paper from his waist coat pocket. “Read mine.”
Max did as he was bid.
Victoria University
Historic Field Trip and Cultural Visit
to
the Northern Isle and Federation of United Māori Tribes
-
To all First Year Māori Studies Students.
-
Please present yourselves at Quay Number Seventeen at
7:45 sharp on the morning of Sunday 7th of July, 1878.
Provisioned with personal wardrobe, toiletry and dressed appropriately for transportation to Wanganui aboard the steamer Lady Barkley.
One case per student only.
-
Dr Archibald Evans – Professor, Māori Studies
Max refolded the paper and handed it back to Wiremu.
“I take your point. A busy weekend.”
“You'll be needing to cut your masquerading short to make a seven forty-five sailing the next morning,” remarked Dickie. Wiremu nodded his agreement.
“Quay Seventeen, that is at the main port,” added Max. “I trust our friends from the Valley Railway Company will be running a special to get us there. I really don't want to have to endure a stay at the Railway Hotel on a Saturday night.”
“I don't know,” said Dickie, looking out the window. “You two could... canoe down again.”
The look of shock on Wiremu's face was priceless.
* * *
Guinan McCreddy licked his lips in nervous anticipation. Then flexing his gloved fingers, he reached forward and gripped the twin, multi-triggered control sticks.
Moments before he had lurched, wheel chair and all, out of his tower's second story loft door. He did not however smash to the ground, a heap of iron, steam, and broiled flesh, but wheeled, with a slight bump, into the cockpit of his combat robot, The Hound of Ulster.
Workers from the paint factory had just finished shackling his chair in place and bolting the door closed behind him. They were now retreating back to their pigmented work. McGreddy would not have his first run observed by anyone.
He waited for his eyes to adjust to the darkness of the cabin. The narrow view hole, much like the letterbox eye slot in a knight's visor, offered a wide panorama of the battle field, but afforded him little light.
Maybe some more light holes cut in the ceiling might help. One for each dial.
He ran his eyes over the gloomy dash and gave the idea away, it would mean at least thirty holes.
A couple of larger holes will help.
He had also given away the idea of mounting a gas lamp.
That would be a sure way of roasting yourself when the glass broke, and the flame engulfed the hold.
He reckoned that he would rather have a candle spilling wax on him.
To either side of the door through which he had just rolled stood high pipe chimneys, their tops flayed and segmented with sharp iron triangles, a decoration in imitation of the single stack on Stephenson's Rocket. The chimneys dropped below to vent twin boilers, which powered twin pistons, which in turn drove a leg each.
McGreddy straightened his fur Usanka. The Russian flap hat had been his prize from Crimea. While others had returned from the winter battlefields pleased with the invention of the Balaclava, he had come away from the war with his own souvenir head dress, and a pair of legs that no longer worked.
He could see now. Scanning the dials, he resisted the temptation to tap them with his index finger, an action he considered to be that of an idiot.
They either worked, or something elsewhere in the system needed more than a poke with a meat digit.
The water tanks were full. Left, right; both boiler fires were well stoked and running clean and hot. Overall pressure was good, left and right specific; near perfect. Lube; left leg, right leg, left arm, right arm... Like some old Sunday School song, though twisted.... hammer, claw, all good.
Reaching forward he slid down two bronze switches in the middle of the panel at as near to the same time as he could manage. His attention went to the corresponding half arc pressure dials, and he watched with satisfaction as the gyroscopes spun up to the speed that his calculations had promised would achieve the best balance.
Through his hands, resting lightly on the control sticks, he could feel the shake and pulse of the machine.
Cuchullain lives. It is time.
He had piped in a peep whistle as a folly and mounted it on the roof between two large steam horns. He sounded this now and at the same moment pushed the left-hand leaver forward.
Instantly he felt the massive right leg stomp ahead sending a shudder through the Hound's iron superstructure. Then with a jolt the cabin pitched forward and dipped to the left sickeningly. For a spit second he thought it was all finished, with the robot over balancing and smashing to the ground. But just in time the left leg, true to design, swung forward to match its partner and the machine regained its tentative equilibrium.
The inventor expressed his relief by releasing a great whoosh of air from his mouth. The twin switches were adjusted a second time, increasing the speed with which the gyroscopes spun. Then nodding to himself McGreddy thrust the left-hand leaver forward once more. All at once, with a pounding rhythm made by great iron feet, the robot marched directly across the rough hill top field, twin trails of smoke and ash drifting behind. At the edge of the testing ground the construct came to a sudden halt, standing in front of the branch-less ruin of an old windblown and lightning struck tree.
Here he let Cuchullain stand, a gigantic, house height, puppet of steel and steam. After a moment the right arm rose. At its end, where a more benign creation would have a hand, there was instead a great steel maul. With one fast stroke the hammer came down and the rotten tree burst apart. McGreddy chuckled to himself.
“Let the games begin.”
Then with a twist of the left leaver the robot stalked around and marched back the way it had come. But now its speed increased until it was running. Around and around in an enormous circle it thundered. A smile creased the inventors face as his head bobbed along to each step.
I'll need to fit some springs in my chair.
With his hands gripping the controls he rushed the robot toward the edge of the hilltop field. Laughing out loud he pulled another large switch back and thrust both iron arms high into the air. The robot followed, springing up into the sky, full stretch like a haka warrior, before crashing down, feet together, into a half crouch. McGreddy's teeth snapped shut, but it didn't stop his cackling laughter for a moment. With the Hound still crouched from the impact, he sounded both massive steam horns. A noise, one half fog horn, the other lion's roar, tore from the flayed pipes and reverberated loud and long though-out the valley below.
Triumph!
* * *
“Zere is one last zing,' said Captain Von Tempsky, addressing the white and black ranks of his Wednesday afternoon fencing class. Max lent forward to see the Captain retrieve a folded letter from his pocket. The class had just concluded by watching one of the 'whites' complete an instructional dual with Kingi, the big Northerner.
Max hadn't seen any of The Five since the raid on Wapping Point three nights ago. They had not reappeared in The Canteen and seemed to have even disappeared from the university entirety.
But both Max and Wiremu had doubted that they had seen the last of them. And now here they were.
Was the chance of learning to fight enough to help you to overcome your humiliation? Naturally Kingi and Ihaka were unchanged.
Max had watched Kingi's style closely. He was powerfully strong, but his sword work was slow, and he was heavy on his feet. He fenced like someone trying to hack scrub from a hillside. Von Tempsky said as much too.
He could cleave a man clean in half. If the man stood still long enough.
Max stored all these observations away.
“I have here a letter from Monsieur Lacroix...” continued the Captain. “Monsieur Lacroix?” he repeated to the blank faces in front of him. “No?” He gave a loud sigh. “Monsieur Philibert de Lacroix is ze Master at Salle d'Armes Louis-Phillippe. Salle d'Armes Louis-Phillippe?” Another sigh and a rueful shake of his grey mane. “Salle d'Armes Louis-Phillippe is ze premiere fencing school in Akaroa, in Charlemagne. You have all heard of Charlemagne, I hope?”
There were a few embarrassed murmurings from the students. Everyone knew about their French neighbours. The Captain held the letter at arm’s length and read.
“Greetings to you Captain Von Tempsky and to your excellent students at the University Victoria. We trust that you are in fine health. It is with great pleasure that we write to you with an invitation. An invitation to your brightest swords.
We welcome your attendance in Port Louis-Phillippe on January 19th, 1879, for a competition at arms, in the disciplines of Sabre and Epee..." There was excited mumming from the students now, which the Captain conquered at once by reading on in a louder voice. "...We expect a full and noble field and therefore will be casting trophies and appropriate prize. Should you join us, and we sincerely hope you will, you shall face your peers from our Academie D'Escrime Lafaugere, Cercle d'Escrime de la rue Cachalot and my own Salle d'Armes Louis-Phillippe. We have also opened our arms to our Scottish friends in Dunedin and trust that they will also find our invitation to their liking. Naturally the tournament shall be governed by L'Ecole des Armes.
Von Tempsky folded the letter back on itself.
“Ze good Master goes on to discuss various technicalities and tediums. But I have given you his main thrust, as such. He states zhat he has ze full support of his Government for ze running of this event and expects zeir co-operation in negotiating with our own, for ze safe and legal transport of our selected team to Akaroa come January of next year. Therefore, if you vish to make ze selection you have six months to prove yourself. Gentlemen, good afternoon.”
The students broke ranks at the Captain's dismissal and began at once to talk excitedly among themselves. Clearly there were many questions to ask, but the Captain marched from the room.
Avoiding Ginger, Max sought out Julian Roil, his only associate of any depth in the class.
“That sounds like a bit of a do.”
“Indeed,” replied Roil, looking thoughtful. "I wonder how many we can take in the team.”
“And how many have parents who will let them go within ten miles of the French border.”
“Yes. A fair consideration. Will you be putting your hat in?” asked the Goth.
“It doesn't sound like a thing to be missed!”
“No, of course not.” Roil maintained his faraway look. “So, the French come knocking, asking if we would come out and play. Not surprising. But I wonder; are we up to the task?”
Everyone had heard of the French Schools and the calibre of the students they produced.
“I never invite the chance to be shamed,” concluded Max, as they walked to the door. “But it might just be worth it to get a look at Akaroa.”
“Timely,” reflected Roil. “It gives the whole thing a point. If you'll excuse my pun. I mean it gives the fencing schools a focus. I know Von Tempsky believes he is training the future gentleman-officers of Her Majesty's armed forces... but really? An annual competition for the honour of the schools makes a little more sense.”
As they departed Max found himself wondering what Harriet would have made of the invitation. Would she have wanted to go? If she had, would she have found French women there, ready to duel with her?
* * *
Wang sat on a moss-covered log outside the shack he shared with his grandfather. The little grey bush-robin stood nearby, watching him with eyes like tiny black glass beads. The sun had set, and the gorge was filling with shadow again.
He had his head in his hands.
He was tired.
For a night and a day Wang had nursed Jo Foo, keeping him warm near the fire and spooning soft rice and chicken broth into his mouth. Not the recipe he had hoped for. He had felt sure he would lose the elderly man in the night. But with the first rays of sun he had rallied, even to the point of describing to Wang, in whispered voice, a little of what had happened.
It was a pitiful and simple enough tale.
Jo Foo had been about to washout the day's fines when a gust of wind had carried his hat away and out into the shallow river, where it floated before coming to rest against a pile of boulders near the middle. The old man had laid his pan aside and waded out into the flow to retrieve his errant head covering. The water was never deeper than his thighs. But reaching for his hat he had slipped on slimy stones beneath the water and come down heavily on his tailbone atop the boulder island.
In excruciating pain and unable to stand, Jo Foo had sunk into the cold water. In a half swoon he had dragged himself, hand over hand, sometimes only drifting, back to the shore. There he had lain in the shallows, water logged amongst the rocks, until Wang had found him hours later, leached of energy and near dead from exposure.
Wang sighed, and the bush robin flitted away.
Things can't go on like this.
Over the last few hours it was like a curtain had been drawn back from Wang's eyes and he had seen for the first time how ancient Jo Foo really was.
He is an old, old man. An old man who should be resting in the dusk of his life, smoking his pipe and playing chess with his friends in the sun.
Wang knew that no matter how much he protested, his Grandfather should not and could not go back to working the claim. It made little difference, the meagre amount of gold they found working the river bank was almost the same as if they abandoned the claim altogether.
Wang had always known this day would come. But the plan had been for him to graduate first. Now that was even unlikely.
What could they do?
If they stopped working the claim the Tong would break Jo Foo's hands and make Wang work for them. Jo Foo would starve and die in the mud and Wang would become a 'wooden man' on which the Tongmen would practice their Kung Fu until he was completely broken.
Over the last day his thoughts had turned desperate.
Maybe they could go to Max's Father and beg to work in the Aviaries? Or maybe they could run or more like limp away. But in both cases he knew that The Kestrel would find them and drag them back... or worse. There was only two ways out of Chinatown, you either found enough gold to buy yourself out, or you died.
So in the last hour his thoughts had turned dangerous.
What of the Chinese coins?
Max and Wiremu believed there were more... because... because they wanted to believe there was. But what if there was?
Just one coin like the one that Max described being found at Paturau would solve all his problems and keep Jo Foo in clean white rice for the rest of his life, and much more beside.
He couldn't help himself; such fantasies were an escape from his misery. Against his better judgement Wang reviewed the scant information the three friends knew about the hoped-for coins. A moment later he was done. Apart from his certainty about who stole the museum coin there was one other set of facts that he was withholding from his friends.
Late on the last three Friday nights a waitress had left the Golden Dragon at closing time in the company of a man. No doubt they had passed through the streets disguised as lovers, turning toward one another, or gigging together before dashing away when approached. In this there was nothing strange. But by the time the couple passed Wang's shack, deep in The Shadow, the silk dress had been replaced with trousers and they both wore heavy walking boots.
Three Friday nights Wang had spied on them through a crack in his door, passing by moon light up the path that led over the mountain to the West Coast. Three weekends he had watched for their return and each time they came only in the small hours of the Monday morning.
With the Tongmen watching everyone, it was a dangerous game the couple played. They would understand the danger, one of their number had already been killed. Therefore, they must believe that the stakes were worth the risk. They must believe that there is some treasure to be found.