House of Trembling Leaves, The (2 page)

‘‘Thank you, First-daughter Teoh!'' a tree tapper replied. ‘‘Your family's kindness overwhelms us. And good luck to your brothers. I hope they win today's race.''

The young woman thought of her brothers, James and Peter Teoh, frantically paddling, eyes out on stalks; the image made her smile.

Not far behind her, a maidservant dressed in a white tunic and loose dark trousers, traced her every step. The servant girl carried a Kodak Retina in her hands and every once in a while she paused, thrust her elbows out like chicken wings and took a photograph.

‘‘Hurry up, pumpkin-head,'' urged her mistress, ‘‘and whatever you do don't drop the camera. Ah Ba will kill us if we damage it.'' Ignoring her, the maidservant wound the film with the crank pin and took another shot of the crowd, snapping images of Woos and Teohs together.

The annual Dumpling Festival was one of only a handful of days in the year when the settlement of debts took place amongst the villagers. It was also one of the few occasions when the Teohs and the Woos intermingled peaceably. There'd been a feud going on between the two families for as long as anyone could remember.

Mud-slinging, territorial conflicts and threats were common; sometimes a roadside scuffle broke out, sometimes a
parang
was wielded; only occasionally did bloodshed raise the stakes to such a degree that the council of kampong elders were called in to resolve the issue. And it all stemmed from a dispute over water. The great Juru River was their lifeblood and it ran through their individual lands. The Teohs owned 27,000 acres on the upper reaches of the river; the Woos controlled 30,000 acres along the valley floor. If a Teoh got the opportunity to cheat a Woo he would; if a Woo could outsmart and trounce a Teoh the whole of the lower valley rejoiced.

One would have imagined that such sworn enemies might choose to live as far away as possible from each other, yet their compounds stood a mere mile and a half apart, on the peripheries of their respective estates, separated by the watercourse and near enough to observe one another through a spyglass. It was as though they needed to keep a close eye for fear of attack.

The Teohs named their house Tamarind Hill after the massive trees that flanked their drive; the Woos called their property Swettenham Lodge in honour of Malaya's first Resident General. Both buildings scrutinized their rival with snake-eyed suspicion. Like twin jousters in some grim medieval fable, they kept sullen watch, monitoring every movement through the armoured slits of their helmets.

‘‘Come get your rice dumplings while they're hot!'' the girl sang. ‘‘Compliments of the Teoh clan!'' She glanced towards the Woo camp where a troop of men were busy spit-roasting suckling pigs over hot coals. The rich caramelized glaze of the pork skin made her mouth water. ‘‘Much tastier than the rubbish those people are trying to peddle!''

She felt a hand on her shoulder. ‘‘Who are you calling rubbish?''

The girl spun around and looked the Chinese man sharply in the eyes. He was dressed in white linen, his hair was oiled and neatly parted to the left and he smelled as crisp and clean as sandalwood. ‘‘Well, well, if it isn't Number One Son Woo,'' she said. ‘‘
Dai-yee-jee
. Old egghead, look-how-important-I-am, Mr Brainbox from Cambridge University, himself!''

‘‘I asked you a question. Who are you calling rubbish?''

‘‘Who do you
think
?''

The maidservant took a picture of them quarrelling.

‘‘I'd prefer it if you didn't refer to my family that way, especially on such a festive occasion.''

The girl pursed her lips. ‘‘Oh dear, I am sorry. What was I thinking? Let me rephrase. How about thickheaded good-for-nothing halfwits instead? Is that more polite? Or gormless monkey-face.''

The man grasped her by the wrist. ‘‘You're coming with me!''

She dropped her basket and felt herself being dragged through the throng, through a line of chickens scratching the ground, away from the river's edge. She glanced about for her maidservant but she was nowhere to be seen. They swept through the village square, past the toddy sugar shop, the pith wood store and the mosquito-net maker, and rushed towards the hillside path. The old men playing Chinese dominoes by the walls of the village temple, shaded by its overhanging eaves, looked up, as did widow Ping, kneeling in prayer by a tin of joss sticks and an offering of fruit.

‘‘Let me go!'' the girl hissed.

‘‘No,'' he said. ‘‘You're coming with me!''

A train of firecrackers exploded, crackling the air and making people gasp and stare into the sky. ‘‘You're hurting!'' she warned.

The sounds of the crowd receded as he pulled her into the bush, climbing the steep hillside path fringed with tall weeds and elephant grass. Surrounded by tropical foliage they stopped to catch their breath. Looking over his shoulder, he checked they weren't being followed and then pressed her against the trunk of a rambutan tree. His eyes shone like wet bronze. ‘‘Thickheaded, good-for-nothing halfwits?''

‘‘Don't talk. Don't say anything.'' She clasped his face and kissed him hard on the mouth. His lips tasted like sweetened tea. She ran her fingers though his hair and down along his back, hitching up one thigh to allow his hand to move freely between her legs.

‘‘Not here,'' he said, catching his breath. ‘‘Not in this undergrowth. There might be centipedes.''

‘‘Where then?

He looked up.

At first she didn't see a thing, but then as the wind shifted and sunshine poured through the canopy she saw a tiny bamboo and rattan tree house with a palm frond sunshade. ‘‘Where did that come from?'

‘‘It took me all of last week to finish. I swept it clean of cobwebs this morning. There's a rope tucked away …'' He reached behind her. ‘‘… just here.''

She whispered a series of curses. ‘‘You know I hate climbing.''

‘‘Nonsense, it'll be fun. Besides, if us Woos and Teohs are going to get up to a bit of clandestine'' – he slewed his eyes left and right comically – ‘‘
sooky-sooky
, we better do it in complete privacy, don't you think?''

‘‘Are you sure we weren't seen?''

‘‘Yes.'' He gripped her by the waist and guided her up the tree.

 

Five miles upstream, amongst a wasteland of dead trees, dark shapes materialized from out of the jungle; their outlines silhouetted against the fading evening light; their clothes the colour of ash. The brush and timber dam appeared before them, entombed in shadow. As they approached they saw that the logs, piled up high, lay lengthwise side by side; some as thick as three feet in diameter, they extended from one bank to the other.

The men exchanged looks and nodded to one another.

Splitting up into pairs they reached the crest of the dam and knelt against the upper tier of logs. With hand axes they hacked half-moons into the wood and inserted the red sticks of dynamite. As they worked, wiping the sweat out of their eyes, a hornbill heckled and squawked from the coconut groves further up the river. They placed the explosives at nine strategic points, inserted the detonating caps and lit the thirty-minute fuses. The small flames sparkled in the grey dusk.

Seconds later, like ghosts in the night, their silhouettes vanished into the rainforest.

 

The tree house took on an amber hue from the sunset.

Their torsos were ringed with sweat. As she lay on her back, sliding against the dry weave of rattan flooring, prickling her bare bottom, he worked his way down her body. He kissed her throat and the tips of her breasts. She felt his lips skate along her navel, felt the softness of his mouth edge lower, flicking the flesh rhythmically until his breath warmed the spot between her thighs. She threw her head back and stared at the sky. The clouds seemed to wobble and crumble.

She pulled at his hair, thirsting for him to enter her.
Please
, she mouthed, breathing fast,
now
 …

She crushed herself against him, arching her hips. A ripple of pressure raced through her just as he raised her knees to her chest and slid into her.

The world shrank in that instant.

Legs entwined, they rocked in unison.

 

The maidservant edged her way up the hillside to get a panoramic shot of the river, stepping through grass so high it tickled her fingertips as she walked. The land around her was lush and green and full of bugs. She spotted an old tree trunk and decided to use it as a resting place. It was hot work. The perspiration made her dark hair shine. With arms cocked like chicken wings, she adjusted the rangefinder and saw the ornate boats in the near distance, snaking along the river like a varicose vein.

She took a couple of snaps before turning abruptly. Someone was walking through the forest behind her. She heard a tree branch snap, followed by a series of low whistles. Twenty feet away, a man emerged from the thicket. He was dressed all in grey and had a mole on his left cheek. One of his shoulders was lower than the other. Instinctively, she took a photograph of him. Through the frame she noticed he carried a red tin in his hand. He extracted whatever was within the tin and tossed the container into the brush; she made a note to retrieve it later.

She shifted, rustling dry grass. Her eyes met his eyes, black and gleaming. His lips curled into a sneer.

When she saw the gun in his hand she began to run.

 

There was a low boom, followed by the screech of birds and the barking of every dog in the village. The ground shook, startling the leaves from the trees. At the dam face, water began to spray out from tiny chinks appearing all along the log wall, bursting through the gaps like needles of light through black
Peranakan
lace.

The timber dam began to tremble. It began to groan. And then with a deafening
CRACK
it gave way.

The torrent gushed forth, tossing logs about as if they were toothpicks. Like a ravenous sea monster, it came barrelling onto the banks, flattening all that stood in its path. It consumed a drove of bullocks in a giant cloud of spray. It smashed against a lone fisherman, devouring him in one like Leviathan swallowing Jonah. It gobbled up a small house and carried away its contents, including a child who was still inside. It obliterated everything in its path, growing higher and higher with each passing second and it was heading towards the main village.

 

She reclined on her front, his face resting on the small of her back.

It was a beautiful and clear evening. The mosquitoes stayed in the tall grass and the low sun hung in the sky like a copper penny. She could hear the laughter and sigh of the festival crowd not far away. Through the canopy she saw the lines of rubber trees reaching out for miles beyond. ‘‘I remember when my father first took me down to the plantation,'' she said in a wistful tone. ‘‘I must have been five or six. We made a cutting in the bark of a tree and teased a dribble of milky sap into a bowl. I used to do lots of things with Ah Ba.''

‘‘But not any more.''

‘‘Not any more. The business has taken over his life.''

She draped her head over the edge of the tree house to listen to the sounds of the forest and to allow the breeze from a distant sea to tingle her skin. She heard a swish of leaves. At that instant she thought she saw a human figure at the fringe of her vision – a faceless man looming momentarily out of the elephant grass. A knot in her stomach tightened. Her eyes scanned the forest floor. She tensed. Was that a silhouette plunging into the darkness? She couldn't be sure. There was a snap of twigs and a quick, sharp whistling, a call to someone, followed immediately by a whistled reply.

She sat up straight and reached for her clothes. She wanted to flee.

‘‘What's wrong?'' he asked.

‘‘I want to go.''

‘‘You're trembling.''

‘‘Someone may have seen us.''

They dressed and climbed down from the tree house. A chill went through her bones. And that's when she heard it – a rumbling, crashing noise, like rocks shifting under the weight of a hundred waterfalls. There was no way of knowing what it was but the vibrations could be felt through the soles of her feet. At first she guessed it was an earthquake or a thunderclap; then she thought of cannon fire. Running was the only way she knew to ward off the fear.

She ran downhill towards the village, tearing through the tall weeds and lalang thickets, towards the growing mass of sound. Her cotton shoes squelched with every step. She couldn't understand why there was water rising up above her ankles. Each stride she took the water got deeper. The cold crept higher up her legs and then to her bewilderment she found dozens of silver-scaled fish sprawled out on their sides, gasping in the marshy shallows.

She rushed through the elephant grass and stopped dead at the perimeter of the village square. The river was overflowing, unloading cargoes of mud. Everything was swamped. Staring in disbelief, trying to catch her breath, she watched the torrent sweep past her at a ferocious speed, carrying flotsam and stubble, bullock carcasses and uprooted trees. Choking, goggle-eyed people clung to walls and windowsills and knolls with the current tearing at them; hands ripped fistfuls of grass from the earth before vanishing. Someone was screaming to get the children to higher ground. A woman searching for her baby bawled with frenzied panic.

She thought of the schoolgirls with the hibiscus flowers in their hair, wondered if they'd been drowned. A tree came crashing down to her left, throwing clouds of spray into her eyes just as a young boy's face, her cousin's she was sure, appeared abruptly out of the water and disappeared just as suddenly. ‘‘I'm going to die too,'' she told herself.

Confusion was everywhere; she heard a desperate shout and watched as the Association headman, with his body pinned to a tall pine, raise his voice in terror. An upturned bullock, hocks stiff as glass and breaking the water surface, speared towards him. With a sickening thud the half-ton animal slammed into the headman, ripping his neck from his shoulders. A handkerchief of blood fluttered the air. The water turned fleetingly from black to red.