Restless Soul (10 page)

Annja preferred to avoid physical confrontations. She didn’t worry that she would get hurt. Rather, she worried that she would hurt someone else. Violence against another person rankled her. Years past or maybe even long months past, she would have preferred to run rather than fight for that reason alone. That hadn’t been her attitude recently, though. Lately she’d tended to confront things head-on and settle matters because she’d almost come to accept the various villainous factors that were constantly crossing her path. And while it bothered her that she’d killed the men on the mountainside—and knew it would continue to bother her for quite some time—she also knew they hadn’t really given her any other choice.

She wondered if she should go after the second batch of men who had chased them across the river.

“Maybe I should,” she mused. “They’re not far away.”

But there was still Luartaro and Zakkarat to consider…as well as the automatic weapons that she really had little defense against save for the stolen Japanese pistol that looked so old it might have been manufactured during World War II. So running was her best approach—at the moment.

“Buy some time and distance,” she snarled softly. “Find them a safe place.” More loudly, she said, “Zakkarat, any idea where we are? Any place close to that trail that leads to Tham Lod Cave or our resort?” She thought she could eventually find her own way back to the resort, but it would take extra time. Directions would help a lot. Even a faded sign advertising the bird show would improve the situation.

“Not too close to that cave, I think, Annjacreed.” He spat something out of his mouth and swatted at a fly. “We got twisted and turned around inside that mountain. Hard to tell just where we are. But I do know that we are east of the river. East of the river and somewhere north of your resort. And so we are still lost. I would tell you to follow the river south, but I am not sure that is a good idea right now.”

“Too easy to be seen,” she said, picking her way in a southeastern direction and increasing her pace, forcing Luartaro to struggle along faster with the injured Thai guide. She knew Zakkarat was in pain, but making him go faster was brutally necessary. “You said there are villages around here.”

“Plenty of villages by the river and all around the mountains,” he said, out of breath. “We could hide in one. I would not think those men would follow us into a hill tribe village. Too many eyes and too many questions, yes? They would want to avoid the villages.”

“Then let’s find one of those villages. And let’s find it in a hurry,” Annja said.

Certainly someone in a village would have a Jeep or ATV or some form of transportation they could use, she thought. And if nothing else, she could leave Zakkarat there to be looked after by Luartaro while she doubled back and dealt with the gunmen, picked them off one by one. No more running.

More gunfire erupted, letting her know the men were persistent. But it did not sound so close this time. Maybe the men had not yet picked up their trail and were firing blindly, or maybe they had found something else to shoot.

“This has been one crazy vacation,” she heard Luartaro mutter. “Why did I ever talk you into going to that spirit cave, Annja? Why couldn’t I have settled for an elephant ride or visiting the long-necked women? Or why didn’t we just stay in?”

She smiled in spite of their dire situation and forced their pace faster still.

Questions continued to dance in her mind. If the men were Vietnamese or Laotian, how did they get into Thailand with all of those weapons? Help from the locals? Through a place where there were no border posts? She also wondered what all the treasure was about, and at what lengths the gunmen would go to find her and her companions to keep word of the treasure silenced. And why put it there, in a cavern in the northern Thailand mountains?

Why put the treasure there?

She would never have discovered it if she hadn’t wanted to pursue the voice in her head, if Luartaro hadn’t first suggested going to a spirit cave and if she hadn’t met him while filming in Argentina and on a whim decided to travel halfway around the world on a vacation with him. If she—

Annja caught sight of a trail to the south, doing a double take to make sure that’s what it was. Then she cut a path toward it, pulling at vines and bending branches to squeeze through here and there, and looking over her shoulder to make sure Luartaro and Zakkarat were reasonably close behind. She’d not heard any gunshots in the past few minutes, but she wasn’t allowing herself to relax. Annja would not let her guard down until she was certain her companions were safe and she had notified the authorities about all of this.

And get a film crew, she thought.

The trail was narrow and well traveled, as evidenced by the utter lack of vegetation on it. But it was also slick with mud, and the still-pounding rain had created a gully stretching roughly down the center of it. The depression was caused by a vehicle, she decided after a quick look, most likely a motorcycle—and that meant the possibility of fast transportation. With a fifty-fifty chance on picking the right direction, Annja chose to follow the trail east, away from the main river and the gunmen. The insects were thick and formed a cloud around her head; she gave up on batting them away.

If the gunmen found this trail, they would also see her tracks, as she had little choice but to slog through the mud if she wanted to follow it. The trees and bushes that grew along the sides were too thick to walk through, and so it was either the trail or look for another route entirely. She hoped that if the gunmen did find this trail, they would be so many minutes behind her that it would not matter, that she and Zakkarat and Luartaro would be safely ensconced in a village.

Annja looked at her watch, curious how much time they’d spent in the mountain. But the crystal had cracked and it was water filled. It had stopped at 11:10 a.m. She paused and turned to ask Luartaro if his watch had fared better, instead deciding that just like the lyrics to an old Chicago song, it didn’t really matter what time it was. She knew it wasn’t yet evening; despite the dark gray clouds, there was too much light for that.

“You all right, Annja?”

“Fine, Lu,” she answered after a moment, and resumed her slogging trek, straddling the gulley as she went. She was fine, but she was also tired and her muscles burned from the day’s ordeal, and so she knew her companions were not faring any better. “I’m fine.”

It didn’t take them long to reach the end of the trail, which opened onto a small village. The trio breathed a collective sigh of relief. The village consisted mostly of bamboo and thatch-woven buildings, with a few made of sheet-metal panels. Most of them were small with open doorways. But two of the structures were long and shaped like shoe boxes, as if they might serve as a community meeting house and a school. These two had several windows, all with shutters closed against the still-driving rain.

Benches and stools stretched along the outer walls and near some of the muddy paths that wound around the buildings and rain-battered flower and herb gardens. There were no signs of modern amenities, such as power lines or electric lights or—to Annja’s dismay—vehicles. Still, to Annja’s eyes the village seemed beautiful—primitive and peaceful, almost magical, as if such a village might have looked just like this a thousand years ago. It was as if time had stood still in this part of the Thailand jungle, and the residents had happily allowed the world to advance elsewhere.

She wished she had come here under different circumstances so she could enjoy it.

She saw several villagers crowded on a bench beneath the awning of one of the large buildings. Under another overhang, children played with a small white dog. She watched as a few youths darted out into the rain in a game of tag. Near them, a boy floated a wooden toy boat in a big puddle.

The people wore simple clothes—sleeveless shirts and straight pants without pockets. The colors were mostly green and pink pastels, with a smattering of khaki. The children were dressed mostly in robin’s-egg blue, a few of them with bright red shorts that stood out.

Annja tugged her shirt out of her waistband and covered the gun stuck there. As she brushed aside a large fern leaf and edged into the village, the people saw her and came out from under their shelters to meet them, a dozen voices chattering all at once, not a single word of which she could make out.

“We need help for Zakkarat,” Annja said, hoping someone understood English. From the expression on the villagers’ faces, there was no comprehension. She gestured behind her to Luartaro, who was still propping up Zakkarat, and she repeated the statement in French, then Spanish. Still nothing. Zakkarat tried, too.

After a moment two men moved forward, one of them waving to the closest long building and taking Zakkarat’s other side and nudging him in that direction. If they hadn’t understood the words, they understood from Zakkarat’s appearance that he was hurt.

Inside, it was dry and cozy—and loud, with rain pelting the roof mixed with the chatter of villagers who had followed them. A few windows were opened to let in a little light, though most of the place remained in shadows. Annja did not see any lamps or candles to improve the situation. She slipped off her backpack and sat it inside the doorway and contemplated taking off her soggy boots to give her feet a chance to dry. She decided not to allow herself that luxury—at least not yet. She needed to look for the gunmen as soon as Zakkarat and Luartaro were settled.

She tried a few other languages, but nothing clicked with the villagers. Zakkarat tried again and finally nodded to one man with a sun-weathered face and a thick shock of inky hair. He said something in return.

“They are Thins, Annjacreed.” Zakkarat grimaced when Luartaro and one of the villagers helped him up onto a table at the back of the single large room.

It had the looks of a classroom, with rows of benches and narrow tables that could serve as desks, a table and chair at the front of the room and a bank of shelves stuffed to overflowing with books and papers.

She raised an eyebrow. “Thins?”

“Yes. That man, Rangsan, said they are Thins. There are maybe a half dozen main hill tribes in this region—the Karen, Lahu, Lisu, Hmong, Mien and Lawa. There are smaller tribes that came from them, such as the Thins, and each has its own language. Thins have lived in Thailand for a long, long time, maybe more than a thousand years, and some members of the main hill tribes have joined them.”

He grimaced when they stretched out his legs, and he leaned back on his elbows. “Thins have preserved their way of life, making little changes since they migrated here from China. There are said to be less than thirty thousand of them in this country. Most of their villages are in the Nan Province, but some are farther north near the mountains, like this one. The Thins build with bamboo, as you can see. Lots of bamboo.”

Annja had noted that nearly all of the buildings were either made of bamboo stalks tied together or woven into thatch panels. Even the floor of the building was bamboo.

“The Thins are—” Zakkarat frowned as one of the villagers examined his sore ankle “—practitioners of swidden agriculture, my father taught me. They farm glutinous rice. Some are Buddhists, but many are just considered animists.”

“Their language…” Annja started. She tried to keep her frustration in check; she enjoyed the local history lesson, but now was not the time for it. She needed to be on her way—to find the gunmen if possible, and to find the authorities. She watched as one of the villagers brought in a wooden bowl filled with water and gently cleaned Zakkarat’s ankle. Another villager stood by with a strip of cloth, ready to wrap it. “Their language, Zakkarat…what do they speak? It doesn’t sound quite like Thai. Can you make them understand—”

Zakkarat shrugged. “Thins, I guess. They speak Thins. Like I said, most of the tribes in Thailand have their own languages, Annjacreed. But this man here—” He nodded toward the one with the bowl. “Rangsan. He seems to understand me well enough.”

Annja’s words came fast now and breathy with urgency. “Tell Rangsan about the men with the guns who chased us down the mountain,” she said. “These people need to know about the guns.”

Zakkarat was not as quick with his speech, repeating a few of the words so that the villager could better understand and talking longer than Annja would have liked. “They do not need to know about the treasure,” he said softly. “They do not need to go into the mountain looking for gold and finding trouble.”

“Ask them…ask Rangsan about transportation, a Jeep, a motorcycle. What is the name of this village? Do you know where we are, Zakkarat? Are we anywhere near your Jeep? Can one of them draw us a map?”

“This place has no name, Annjacreed.” He shrugged his shoulders at the rest of her questions and translated.

“It goes without saying there would be no cell phone or satellite phone,” Annja continued, talking to herself as much as to Zakkarat and Luartaro. “But transportation. And directions. If they have a map or can draw a map, give us a better reference to Tham Lod and our resort, the river. Anything. Otherwise, I’m about half a heartbeat from heading off on my own.” She refused to lose the urgency of the situation.

Zakkarat kept speaking slowly, again repeating words.

Annja gestured for him to speed up, but he shook his head and kept at it.

“How far are we from the resort? From a town?” she asked. Annja paced in a tight circle and listened for the answers. She also listened to the rain, which hadn’t let up in its intensity, and the soft chatter of the villagers. “Hurry, Zakkarat.”

“Hurry? You do not understand tribal life, Ann-ja-creed,” Zakkarat said. “These villages are ancient and remote. You cannot do things quickly here. And you cannot go too slowly because time is not measured in hours, or maybe even days. I doubt anyone here owns a watch.” Annja noted that Zakkarat’s own watch had been broken, too. “Time is measured in seasons and years. And distance? It is not a measure of kilometers or miles, but in time, how long it takes to get from one place to the next…and that depends entirely on the method of transportation or how long your legs are. So, Annjacreed, some of your questions cannot be answered.”