‘See there? That’s where I’m going, some day.’
Theodore gazed along the line of her arm and saw, through a notch in the hill-range, a glimmer of silver and purple – snow-peaks, clearer each instant as the clouds thinned, a hundred miles away or more, but even at that distance making the hills among which he stood seem like little more than dimples in the earth’s crust.
‘Tibet,’ he said dully. ‘You can’t go there. They don’t let you in.’
‘That’s as may be, young man, but I’m going there before I die. I bet there’s things in them valleys like what nobody’s never seen.’
‘Things?’
‘Plants,’ she said, strapping her kit together. ‘What else do you fancy I’m doing in these heathen parts? I’m a plant-collector, see? One day there’ll be a flower what everybody grows in their garden and it’ll have my name on it. Something-or-other Jonesii. Won’t that be grand?’
She laughed, self-mocking, as Lung helped her into the saddle, but she had been talking with a sudden intensity, enough to draw Theodore’s whole attention. Now, as they rode on across the upland, she continued to chatter away.
‘Mind you, I have got a rose called after me, Daisy Dancer, but it ain’t a proper wild species and it ain’t my real name. I was born Daisy Snuggett, see, but you could hardly put that at the top of a bill, could you? I’m not saying as Daisy Dancer ain’t a pretty little rose, pinky with hundreds of curly petals, though it’s turned out a devil for mildew, I hear . . . oh, I beg your pardon, young man. Does that count?’
‘I don’t know,’ said Theodore. In fact he knew quite well – Satan counted. But Mrs Jones was already chattering on and he had no urge to stop her though often he had little idea what she was talking about. She had made a break in the monotony of his grief, and he was grateful, though without any conscious awareness of gratitude. Only when he knew her better did he guess that she had deliberately chosen the moment, had understood his needs, first for privacy and now for interruption. At one point she tried to involve Lung in the talk, but to Theodore’s surprise he held up a reproving hand, though he smiled with sudden charm as he did so, then reined his pony in and fell behind.
‘Making up one of his poems,’ muttered Mrs Jones. ‘Didn’t I say there’s more to him than what meets the eye?’
After that she gossiped on all day, unwearied as one of the mountain streams.
Two evenings later they waited, half-hidden by a wattle fence that had been built as a shelter for young vines, and watched an old woman hoeing her garden. The flies, which had swarmed and settled and stung all the weary afternoon as they worked their way round through the hill-scrub above the fields, had gone. To the west the sky was palest yellow, streaked with pink along the mountain rims. The thin moon that floated in the darkening edge of night seemed to be nearer than those snow-peaks. Quarter of a mile ahead lay the river, a network of shallows and gravel banks. They knew it could be crossed here because from the hillside they had seen small herds of cattle fording it, and had decided that it was safer to make this circuit than to risk using the bridge in the middle of the town that lay at the head of this sudden fertile valley. The last peasant they had met up in the hills had seemed dangerously sullen. They had discussed concealing Mrs Jones somehow among the baggage and letting Lung and Theodore take the horses through; but even so there would be a good chance that someone would want to see the strangers’ travel papers, and the baggage would be searched, if only for loot. Then they had seen the ford.
‘Ah, get on with it, you old besom,’ whispered Mrs Jones.
She stood as straight as ever, but Theodore could hear the exhaustion in her voice. He himself was ready to lie down and sleep where they stood. The horses could smell the river and were restless with thirst. Beyond the river a good road ran due east, but between them and the river, less than a quarter of a mile away now, lay this last lone cottage, with the old woman hoeing and hoeing. It seemed a pity, now they had come so far without being seen, to let this one person witness their passing. At last she straightened her back and hobbled away. Mrs Jones waited another minute and started down the path. The cottage was in darkness, but just as Theodore came level with its gate a voice spoke from the vine-shrouded porch.
‘A peach-blossom sky—
Men lead horses to the ford . . .’
Even to Theodore, whose sole reading was his Bible, the tone was unmistakable – an old man’s voice, detached and amused, quoting poetry and ending on a note of question. The horse-hooves padded on the soft track for a few paces, then another voice spoke, whispering but clear.
‘A boat-shaped moon—
I fetch rice-wine for a friend.’
Before Theodore had fully grasped that this second voice was Lung’s, a cackle of pleasure rose from the porch.
‘My flagon is already half-empty, Traveller, but anyone who can quote Tu Fu in this wilderness must stay and help me finish it, that we may start on another.’
Lung hesitated. The hoof-sounds of his pony had ceased.
‘Weng,’ he called suddenly in an authoritative voice, ‘run ahead and ask the Captain to wait.’
Theodore dropped Bessie’s reins and trotted down the path. He found Mrs Jones had already halted.
‘What’s the bleeder up to now?’ she muttered. ‘We got to get across while it’s still light enough to see.’
‘He wants us to wait. He’s being careful. He called me Weng and you the Captain. Maybe he’s getting news, or faking a story so the man won’t guess he’s seen foreigners.’
‘Let’s hope,’ she sighed.
They waited for several minutes, listening to the murmur of voices. At last a gate creaked and Lung appeared from the loom of the cottage.
‘Missy, we sleep here this night,’ he whispered.
‘Here! You think we can trust this bloke? What have you done with the horses?’
‘This fellow not a bloke, Missy. He very OK gentleman. He official long time in yamen at Pekin, but not in favour now, so he live here. He say put horses in shed, eat here, sleep here, maybe cross river before sun rise.’
‘Oh, fair enough. I’m that fagged . . . What did you tell him about me?’
‘I say you English Princess.’
‘Oh, Lor! I’m going to have to mind my manners, ain’t I?’
Mrs Jones insisted on seeing that the horses were properly groomed and fed and watered before she would come into the house. She and Theodore did the work while Lung held the lantern and talked to their host, a fat little man with a bald head and a leathery face puckered into a million wrinkles. His name was P’iu-Chun. He needed a crutch to walk, and wore clothes like any peasant’s, but Lung was very respectful to him. He was polite to Lung, if a bit grand, but he watched Mrs Jones all the time with bright-eyed amusement.
As P’iu-Chun led the way into the house at last Lung said in English, ‘Is not custom for woman to eat along by man, but honoured P’iu-Chun say this night forget custom.’