The Blue-Eyed Shan by Becker Stephen;

Author:Becker, Stephen;
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Open Road Media

8

Greenwood’s Return

Since the war Greenwood had not come awake so fast. He took in the rifles, swords, daggers, pistols, turbans and jewelry. Shan, four of these were Shan, one perhaps Chinese, the little one he supposed a lowland Burman.

His hands conspicuously empty, he played the host: “Blessings and greetings.” Yunnan ponies, large saddlebags, no women—that was bad—marauders living off targets of opportunity, namely Greenwood.

One of them said, “Greetings and blessings.” He was a swarthy man with a droopy black mustache and cunning eyes. Greenwood was afraid now. He and fear were old acquaintances but had not met for some time; he fought to dispel it, to sharpen his wits and see through this shameful fog. “A rare thing,” the man said. “Lonely travelers in these hills.”

With enormous effort Greenwood rubbed his eyes and yawned casually. He saw that Jum-aw was terrified, eyes huge, mouth trembling.

The swarthy man said, “And with a tamigan.” There was also a large stout man whose presence was for some reason comforting; perhaps it was the old prejudice, fat men are slow and easygoing and even-tempered. This particular slow, easygoing and even-tempered fat man carried a machine pistol, of what nationality or make Greenwood could not distinguish.

“The tommy gun is an old companion,” Greenwood said. He stretched and groaned, adding suitable morning sounds, and opened his shirt to scratch his hairy chest.

Swarthy shot a glance at Fat Man. Greenwood noted this with hope, and removed the shirt altogether, flapping it as if to free it of the night’s effuvia, or of any stray nats that might have taken shelter in a sleeve.

They were openly curious about his tattoo; yet good manners prevailed. “Doubtless the traveler has a destination,” Swarthy said.

“Perhaps Motai. Perhaps Fang-shih. I am only seeing a bit of the world.”

“And the young one?”

“My hired guide and porter.”

None of these men seemed to blink. They stared like falcons. Greenwood could not sort them out, this one friendly, this one a coward, this one cruel, but he recognized their hostile solidarity. He remembered himself and a small squad of Kachin with two Japanese prisoners. Greenwood had sat even as Swarthy sat now, calm, inscrutable, God, weighing, judging, dispensing life and death. That day he had dispersed death and the memory assailed him now.

One of the Shan, a strapping fellow of about thirty, said, “Ask him what he carries.”

“I will ask him when I am ready to ask him,” Swarthy said, with another quick glance at Fat Man. “First I will ask if there is news or gossip.”

Greenwood said, “Light me a cheroot, Jum-aw.” The boy needed help, attention, a function. This was a cool dawn in the mountains, but sweat glistened on the smooth lip. “Come on, boy!” To Swarthy Greenwood said, “He may reach into his pack?”

“Slowly,” Swarthy said, and smiled a perfect villain’s smile.

“Come now, Jum-aw. These are only Shan brothers.”

Jum-aw seemed to breathe for the first time; he fumbled for a cheroot, groped for matches, lit up and passed it to Greenwood, who

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