In Search of Goliathus Hercules (22 page)

“Maybe a princess?” suggested Robin. “The daughter of an emperor?”

“Why does it always have to be a princess or something out of a fairy tale?” complained Billy.

“If it were a princess, I expect there would be an army escorting her. This person only has eight in her party,” replied Maestro Antonio.

They set up their tents each night upon ground that was not really desert but was nonetheless wasteland, rocky and unforgiving. On the morning of the fourth day, they saw just who rode in such grandeur. It was a woman—a tall woman in a black tunic. Her head was covered in an elaborately embroidered black cloth, and she wore a veil so that only her eyes and forehead were exposed.

“I can’t believe it!” said Robin.

“I can!” said Henri. “I’m going over there to settle this once and for all!”

Maestro Antonio put on his hat and joined him.

However, they didn’t get very far. They were within thirty yards of the camp when they were stopped by the four palanquin bearers, who held raised swords. A finely dressed man approached and bowed.

“Good morning, gentlemen. My name is Khan. May I be of assistance?”

“Yes, you may. We would like to speak to your mistress,” said Maestro Antonio.

Khan smiled. “I am sorry, but that is not possible. It is not appropriate for a woman to meet with strange men.”

Henri spoke up. “Could you give her a message?”

“Certainly,” replied Khan politely.

“Please tell her we’re watching her,” said Henri.

Khan looked perplexed but nodded.

“One other thing,” said Henri. “What is your mistress’s name?”

“In our culture, it is impolite to address someone by their given name,” said Khan. “The lady you speak of is the emperor’s wife’s cousin’s brother-in-law’s sister.”

Henri and Maestro Antonio looked at each other and then burst out laughing. “And I’m the King of Siam!” said Maestro Antonio.

Khan frowned and said, “She’s a very important person. Please wait while I deliver your message.”

A short time later he returned with the message that the emperor’s wife’s cousin’s brother-in-law’s sister sent her regards and invited them to travel to Tashkent with her party. She was making the journey so that she could purchase the finest Chinese silks at a workshop in that city.

“We’d be delighted to join her,” said Henri. He figured there was no harm in following and if she was indeed Agatha Black in disguise, they might get a better idea of her intentions. They trailed the palanquin for another four days before finally entering Tashkent, the city known as the gateway to the Orient and famous for its beautiful mosques.

They had to leave their carts at the outskirts of the city to follow the palanquin through the narrow, dark streets. The old quarter of the city was like a labyrinth. Streets meandered and forked so that Henri and the others soon lost their bearings. This made Henri nervous. Perhaps they were walking into some kind of trap. His anxiety became even greater as his ears picked up a sound—a sound so awful, he stopped dead in his tracks.

“What is it, Henri?” asked Billy.

“Don’t you hear it?” replied Henri, putting his hands to his ears. Henri sank to his knees. “They’re crying! They’re screaming in pain! Oh, it’s terrible!” Tears started to well up in his eyes.

“Who, Henri? Who’s screaming?” cried Robin.

“I don’t know,” groaned Henri. “It’s coming from that direction.” He pointed to the way the palanquin had gone.

“Come on!” said Maestro Antonio. He and Billy grabbed Henri under the arms and lifted him to his feet. They dragged him through the streets until they came to a gate with a sign over it.

They could see the palanquin had been set down in the courtyard. Henri could barely stand.

“Maybe we shouldn’t go in,” said Billy, looking at Henri.

“We have to!” cried Henri.

“This could be a trick!” said Robin.

“I don’t care! I can’t let them hurt them anymore! I can’t let them kill them!” Henri stumbled into the compound. The others followed warily.

Henri looked around frantically. All around the courtyard women sat at looms weaving, while others dipped silk threads into dye baths of brilliant colors. The courtyard was festooned with beautiful, shiny silk fabrics, hung to dry. Some of them still dripped with dye. They flapped in the breeze like long multicolored flags. It was a festive sight, but Henri still sensed pain and death. On the right, they saw Khan and the emperor’s wife’s cousin’s brother-in-law’s sister standing by steaming pots. Khan walked toward them. Henri stood rooted to the spot with his hands over his ears.

“Welcome to the Tashkent Silk Factory. Here you can see how silk is made.” He looked at Henri with some concern, obviously wondering if he was trying to slight him with his hands placed over his ears. He must have decided to ignore this peculiarity, for he continued, “Do you know how silk thread is made?”

They all shook their heads.

Khan led them to a corner of the courtyard where trays of leaves were set out. Upon the fresh green leaves, thousands of caterpillars munched happily. “These are silkworms, the caterpillars that make silk. They eat only mulberry leaves. When it is time, they will spin their cocoons.”

He moved over to show them some nearby branches where caterpillars wound the silk thread they produced around their body. This created a cozy protective home, where they would transform themselves and later emerge as silk moths. Some of the cocoons were complete. Attached to a branch, they appeared as unmoving white capsules of about half a finger’s length. Henri watched and tried to listen to Khan, but he still held his hands over his ears, trying to keep out the horrible screams.

Khan directed them back to where the emperor’s wife’s cousin’s brother-in-law’s sister stood partially obscured by great billows of steam coming from the pots. “Here is where the silk thread is unraveled,” said Khan. They watched as a woman with about six cocoons in her hand prepared to drop them into the boiling pots.

Suddenly Henri understood. “Stop!” he yelled. “You’ll kill them if you do that!” He reached out and grabbed the woman’s hand. Everyone looked startled except the emperor’s wife’s cousin’s brother-in-law’s sister. She stared intently at Henri.

“But how will they reel the silk thread?” asked Khan in a reasonable voice. “The water softens the gum that holds the cocoon together.”

“Don’t you see? The boiling water kills the silkworm. It can’t survive that,” replied Henri.

“It’s true,” said Khan, “but I think it is a small price to pay to have the most luxurious fabric in the world upon the emperor’s wife’s cousin’s brother-in-law’s sister’s back. Today we have come to order a thousand yards of the finest silk this workshop produces.”

Henri was outraged. “Just how many silkworms will die for that?”

Khan turned to the woman who held the cocoons and spoke to her in an unfamiliar language. “She says they will need one million cocoons to produce that much cloth.” Henri still held the woman’s hand. Now he turned it over, pried open her fingers and removed the silk cocoons. He was shaking with anger. “One million dying is a small price to pay? Maybe to you, but not to them!” He held up the cocoons. “I hear them screaming. It is an agonizing death!”

Robin, Billy, and Maestro Antonio looked horrified, for they now understood that what Henri had heard were the wails of silkworms being boiled alive. They heard a laugh and looked from Henri to the face of the emperor’s wife’s cousin’s brother-in-law’s sister, still veiled in the steaming mist. Khan approached her, and she whispered into his ear.

“She says you are very sentimental. She is sorry that you are upset. She thought this might be an educational visit.”

Henri was ready to leap at the emperor’s wife’s cousin’s brother-in-law’s sister and toss her into the big, steaming pot of boiling water, but he was held back by Maestro Antonio and Billy. Henri struggled, but they were too strong for him. As gently as they could, they forced Henri out the factory gate, finally releasing him once they were on the street.

“W-why didn’t you l-let me at her?” he stuttered in anger.

“She’s the emperor’s wife’s cousin’s brother-in-law’s sister—royalty, in other words. They probably would have locked us in prison and tossed away the key if you had hurt her,” declared Maestro Antonio.

“She is
not
royalty!” retorted Henri. “She’s Agatha Black! You know she is! Masquerading once again!”

“Henri, we all know that, but Tony is right. The people around here seem to think that she is royalty,” Robin said.

“What do we do now?” asked Billy.

“We wait!” snapped Henri. “And then we follow her.”

Grimly, they agreed. They retreated down the street, hiding in a very narrow and smelly alley until the palanquin passed. Stealthily as they could, they followed it to the marketplace. At last, it stopped.

Henri watched as the emperor’s wife’s cousin’s brother-in-law’s sister emerged from the palanquin and walked over to a stall that had shelf upon shelf of tiny, very ornate cages, too small for a bird. Henri recognized them right away from his days of polishing buttons for Great Aunt Georgie. They were cricket cages. At once, the most sorrowful sound came to his ears. It was the saddest song in the world. There were different voices, but they all sang the same story. A tale of once-happy, pleasure-filled days until the cricket was captured and forced by man to sing its song. The songs spoke of lonely, gray days trapped in the beautiful barred prison cell. It was a lovely song, but so sad.

After the emperor’s wife’s cousin’s brother-in-law’s sister pointed to a cricket, the shopkeeper used a sharp stick to poke the cricket, which was its cue to begin singing. She tested the voices of at least a dozen crickets before finally purchasing six of the best singers. In their individual cages, they were packed into the palanquin. The shopkeeper gave her his stick. The emperor’s wife’s cousin’s brother-in-law’s sister returned to the palanquin and pulled the curtain. Immediately, the crickets began to sing. Henri, Robin, Billy, and Maestro Antonio all understood the sad song. They winced as they imagined the crickets jabbed with the stick, ordered to sing their melancholy tale.

When the palanquin was gone, Henri approached the stall. He gazed at the caged crickets and turned to the others. “We’re buying them all,” he said. No one objected. Maestro Antonio hired three men to help carry the cricket cages to the city out-skirts. There they opened the doors, and as they did so, he said, “You’re free. Run away from here.” Many simply hopped away as fast as they could, but others stopped to ask which human had freed them. “Henri. Henri Bell,” was the response.

“Thank you, Henri Bell, for your great kindness. We shall not forget this, and I will tell all my kind of this selfless deed,” said one. And that was the beginning of Henri’s fame in the Orient among the six-legged folk. He was a beacon of light, a reason for hope as a “Black” cloud crossed the continent.

They continued to track Agatha Black, aka Madame Noir, aka Mrs. Blackburn, aka the emperor’s wife’s cousin’s brother-in-law’s sister, following her to every site of insect atrocity known to man. In each country, she assumed a new identity, although why she bothered, they couldn’t understand.

“Maybe she just likes to dress up?” suggested Robin.

“She’s toying with us,” retorted Henri.

In India, they trailed her to a workshop where the wings were torn off live jewel beetles to make hair ornaments Mrs. Black had braided into her long hair. In Burma, she feasted on wok-fried cicadas, popping them into her mouth like they were peanuts. In Thailand, she commissioned a fancy serving tray covered in a mosaic pattern of butterfly wings.

Agatha Black’s cruelty seemed to know no bounds. Her capacity to inflict pain and suffering upon insects seemed insatiable. It was obvious she took malicious pleasure in watching their pain. It disgusted Henri. He burned with a hatred so strong that sometimes he could think of nothing else. He knew he could not rest until he had captured
Goliathus hercules
, found his father, and put an end to Agatha Black!