I don’t know how long I stood there in the darkness, sawing at the slats with Er Lang’s scale. It seemed ages before I managed to pull out first one, then another. My hands and neck ached from the tension. Through the gap that I had made I could see the dim outlines of trees and guessed I was facing part of the estate grounds. There were no fine gardens there, only a bleak slope of dry grass and, in the distance, a high wall topped with tiles. Despite the pall of night, my eye was caught by a flickering movement, a cloud of swift wings that dipped and wheeled. It passed so quickly that I wondered if I had been mistaken, but then I remembered that I had seen no wild birds in this world of the dead.
The window slats were made out of some kind of hard timber, perhaps the legendary belian, or Borneo ironwood, which is said to be as hard as metal. From time to time I checked the edge of Er Lang’s scale, fearing that I had blunted it, but to my surprise it was as sharp as ever. I tested it against my finger and a few drops of blood welled up. The sight relieved me, for though I had no physical body here, I was glad that, unlike the carcass of the pig that had been butchered in the courtyard, I could still bleed. Exhausted, I sat down and blew tentatively across the fluted edge of the scale. Again, I heard the faint musical sound of a distant wind whistling across vast empty spaces. It called to me, like a flautist playing a lonely melody on a moonlit mountainside.
The sky was infused with the gray colorlessness before dawn. I had dozed off again for a few minutes and, with a sense of panic, I jumped up and ran to the window, wondering if the ox-headed demons had returned. Peering out, I was startled by a dark shape, like a grotesque mushroom, that rose up abruptly outside the window. I stifled a scream.
“I was waiting for you to wake up. Goodness knows, it took you long enough.”
I knew that voice; those bored, aristocratic tones so at odds with the attractive timbre. “Er Lang?” I whispered.
“You’re lucky I got here.”
“But I thought you couldn’t come.”
“Technically I shouldn’t be able to. As I mentioned before, this is a place for human ghosts. But I had a little help.”
“From whom?”
“Don’t you remember when we first met?”
I thought wildly at first of the mangrove swamp, but as though he could read my thoughts he cut in impatiently. “No, the medium by the temple wall. That’s right,” he continued, “You were there to get some spell against Lim Tian Ching (much good that it did you), but I was there to talk to her about the Plains of the Dead.” There was a certain smugness in his tone.
“So you managed after all,” I said.
“Well, it was a little difficult. And as you can see, I’m not here in my physical body.”
I glanced out of the window. The dark mass that I had mistaken for a mushroom was none other than Er Lang’s ubiquitous basket hat. “You look the same to me.”
“Of course I do. It’s just not my physical body. But it’s good enough for spying.”
“Then what did you need me for?” I was beginning to feel indignant. “Why did you send me here to find out about Lim Tian Ching when you were planning to come by yourself all the time?”
“You were a bonus, so to say. And it wasn’t as though I was entirely sure that I could come here anyway.”
“Do you know I’m supposed to be interrogated by demons?”
“Yes, well, it’s not my fault that you proved to be such an inept spy.”
“Inept!” I inadvertently raised my voice and the puppet servant outside my door stirred suddenly. Hurriedly, I began to hum and after a breathless moment, the shadow behind the door lapsed back into stillness.
“Why are you humming?”
“Because there’s a puppet servant guarding me,” I hissed. “It responds to strange noises.”
“Oh, is that so?” I hated the way Er Lang sounded so amused. “Actually I ought to thank you,” he continued. “If it hadn’t been for you I probably couldn’t have reached this place, despite the medium’s help.”
“How so?”
“Why, you called me of course. If you hadn’t, I might not have made it.”
I turned over the scale in my hand. It had a soft radiance, like a pearl. “When did you get here?”
“Yesterday evening, in the reckoning of this place. I spent some time finding my way around the estate. It really is terribly ostentatious.”
“Why didn’t you come and let me out then?”
“I couldn’t locate you until you called me again. Besides, there were a number of interesting things going on. But first, I want an update.”
In a low voice, I hurriedly recounted all that I had observed, including the presence of the ox-headed demons. I left out the part about my mother, however, feeling ashamed for having gone to seek her in the first place. Er Lang listened with no comment, merely nodding his head from time to time so that the enormous hat bobbed like a boat upon the water.
“Is that all?” he said when I had fallen silent.
I flushed. “Yes. It’s not very much, is it?”
“Well, at least we’ve discovered that Lim Tian Ching’s great-uncle is also implicated in whatever is going on. Do you remember any of the other guests?”
“There was an old man, Master Awyoung. He was the one I met when I first arrived.”
“It’s too bad you weren’t able to remain incognito longer,” said Er Lang coolly. “But I suppose we shall have to make do with what we have. Master Awyoung is an interesting development. He’s been in the Plains of the Dead for a suspiciously long time.”
“He said he was tired of it and wanted to go on to the Courts of Hell, but his descendants prayed for him to have more time to enjoy their funeral offerings.”
Er Lang gave a sharp laugh. “Did he tell you that? Just between us, I don’t think that Master Awyoung is in any rush to go to the courts for judgment. In fact, his name came up precisely because he has stayed almost two hundred years here.”
“How did he manage it?”
“The official record is the same as what you have told me—namely, that due to the filial piety of his descendants, his term was extended. But I have my doubts that he really wants to go. In the first place, he has plenty of sins awaiting retribution in the courts, which he’s in no hurry to face. No doubt he has made a deal with someone, possibly even one of the Nine Judges of Hell, for his cooperation. Secondly, having an agent like him is useful because the Plains of the Dead is an interim place. From here it’s easy to coordinate movements between planes of existence, or even return to the world of the living as a shade. For what could be more incognito than a ghost?”
“But he said he never went anywhere.”
“You really are naive. It’s rather sweet, in a way. Besides, he could easily send a spy or a courier. Someone like Lim Tian Ching, for example. I’d like to know who is pulling the strings behind Master Awyoung.”
“I thought he was mad.”
“Yes, well, that would be a rather convenient persona to cultivate.”
I was crestfallen.
“In any case,” said Er Lang, “that’s certainly a useful piece of information. Let’s see what else we can sniff out.”
“If you pull out the bars, I think I can climb out,” I said.
“I’m beginning to wonder whether it might be better to leave you where you are.”
“What?” My voice emerged in a squeak.
“Think of what would happen if t
hey should find you gone. And also, what else you might glean from Master Awyoung if he thinks you’re his prisoner. In fact, I don’t see why you shouldn’t be questioned by the ox-headed demons as well. I’d like to know which guard company they come from.”
“If they read my soul, it would mean the end of your undercover investigation.”
There was a gleam of teeth from within the shadows of his hat. “Well, that would be a problem, wouldn’t it? I suppose I had better let you out.”
I stared hard at Er Lang, wondering whether he really would have left me behind if it suited his purpose.
“Oh, don’t look so hostile,” he said lightly. “It’s not becoming.”
I watched in fascination as he began to break the window slats. His hands were long and slender and, in the pale dusky light, looked entirely human. Yet they possessed a strength beyond their refined appearance as he snapped off the ironwood slats with ease. He made hardly any noise, but I glanced nervously at the shadow of the puppet servant under the door.
“What about my guard?” I whispered. “It was under strict orders not to let me out.”
“Of the window?”
“Oh. I see. They said the door.”
“That’s the problem with these automatons,” said Er Lang cheerily. “Quite brainless, though utterly devoted and completely trustworthy. No wonder my investigation was stalled until I could find a way to come here myself.”
“Couldn’t you have asked some other ghost to help you?”
Er Lang paused. “What makes you think you were the first?”
While I considered this uncomfortable thought, he removed the last barrier. I scrabbled to lever myself over the high window ledge. After a few minutes of this, Er Lang reached over and pulled me out. I had been afraid that his hands would be chill and inert, like the puppet servant, but to my surprise they were warm, with a firm grip. Despite myself, I blushed. I was not used to being touched by a man, and this contact, brief though it was, made me uncomfortably conscious of Er Lang’s tapering, elegant fingers, so different from Tian Bai’s square hands. Embarrassed, I turned my face aside, focusing instead on wriggling through the narrow window. My hips and legs scraped against the frame and actually became stuck at one point.
“Please stop!” I gasped.
Er Lang tilted his head as though he were listening to some far-off noise. Then ignoring my protests, he braced himself against the wall and simply pulled harder. With a creak, the window frame bowed and gave an extra inch, allowing me to slide out like a crab from an upturned pot.
“Didn’t you hear me?” I said. “That hurt!”
“It would have been worse to be stuck,” he said. “Quick! There are gardeners coming.”
With little ceremony, we scuttled into some nearby bushes, Er Lang half dragging me along. “Keep down!” he hissed. From my crouched vantage point, I could see a pair of feet walking with the monotonously jerky gait of a puppet servant. It was followed by two more sets of footwear. Wordlessly, they moved in tandem, clipping and trimming the shrubbery. I shrank back against Er Lang as they approached us. A faint fragrance of incense clung to his clothes, surprising in that dead world. Closing my eyes, I breathed in the refined, courtly aroma of aloeswood. It made me think of hushed voices and poems read by candlelight, the time measured out by the elegant practice of burning a stick of costly incense. I could not imagine Er Lang taking part in poetry competitions; he would probably say something perverse. Still, who had scented his robes for him? I wrenched my thoughts away. It really didn’t matter what Er Lang did in his spare time, which might be devouring maidens or diving for catfish, for all I knew. I shouldn’t be too curious about him. Yet, I was exquisitely aware of our proximity and how my back was pressed against the warmth of his chest.
His left arm, resting on his knee, almost encircled me—and I felt his muscles flex, then tense, as though he was anticipating something. I tried not to think of how close he was, but could only hear the distracting rhythm of my own pulse. A burning flush crept up my neck. Afraid that Er Lang would notice, I stiffened, but he paid no attention to me, other than to tighten his grip on my shoulder warningly.
The feet of the puppet gardeners drew ever closer until I realized with dread that they meant to prune the very hedge that we were hiding in. At the last moment, Er Lang rose abruptly. He waded out of the bushes and began to busy himself with the greenery, rocking his heels in imitation of their movements. His large bamboo hat was not quite like their pointed coolie hats, but I hoped desperately that such details wouldn’t matter to them. They stopped and huddled together, then to my great relief, moved on to another stand of trees.
It was some time before he motioned for me to come out, and when I did so, I couldn’t help glancing around nervously. The gardeners were now mere specks in the distance.
“Do they work at night as well?” I asked, looking at the dusky pall that still thankfully covered the sky.
“It will be morning soon,” said Er Lang. “But they seem to go around at all hours. You look dreadful, by the way,” he remarked conversationally.
I glared at him, conscious of the way my hair had straggled out of its plaits, the dirt that encrusted my clothing, not to mention the tear stains on my grimy face. “Why does it matter?”
“Well, if you were caught spying on Master Awyoung, it would help to look a little more alluring.”
“Are you planning for me to be interrogated by him as well?”
“It might be quite useful.”
“I hate you,” I said before I could stop myself.
He seemed genuinely surprised. “Most women say they love me.”
I turned away to hide my irritation. Er Lang’s high-handedness and egotism constantly amazed me, despite any gratitude that I ought to have felt for his rescue of me. But then he was the one who had instructed me to come here in the first place, I thought angrily, conveniently forgetting that I had had no other options at the time. Before, I had speculated whether Er Lang was hiding the head of a cold-blooded fish beneath his impenetrable hat brim, but now I decided that he must be the Pig Marshal—a monstrous hog who was the companion to the Monkey King of Chinese mythology. Formerly a marshal of the Heavenly Hosts, he had accidentally been reborn into a sow’s litter, and spent most of the time chasing women in the mistaken belief that he was irresistible. That, I thought sourly, was probably Er Lang’s true form.
“Of course, I would endeavor to rescue you,” said Er Lang, rather pompously, I thought. “I wouldn’t leave you here.”
“Wasn’t that what you were just planning to do?” I asked.
“You’ll have to trust me. Besides, I don’t see that you have many other options. If you don’t find a way to rejoin your body soon, you might lose it forever.”
“How many days has it been in the real world since I left?” I asked, suddenly anxious.
He paused. “Almost three weeks.”
“But I thought you said time tended to run faster in the Plains of the Dead than in the world of the living!”
“That doesn’t mean it always does. If we’re lucky, it might reverse itself and run slower.”
Fear closed my throat. “How much time do you think I have left?”
“At best, a few weeks.”
“And worst case?”
“The deterioration in fit between your spirit and body might have already begun.”
I’m sorry,” said Er Lang after a l
ong and awkward silence.
I felt like crying but there was no help for it. Tears would do me no good, even if I withered away into a wraith. “Very well,” I said with forced cheer. “I’ll go and find Master Awyoung.”
“He must have a powerful sponsor in the Courts of Hell if he’s organizing a rebellion. Try to find out who is pulling the strings, although I’m afraid your disappearance from the storeroom may soon be discovered. Which means we have very little time.”
That reminded me. “I was supposed to meet Fan tomorrow. She said she would show me the way back—or can I go with you?”
“Out of the question. The way that I took to enter this world is not one that you can follow.” Er Lang shook his head decisively, making the broad-brimmed hat wobble. It was on the tip of my tongue to ask him why he wore it, but I thought again about what sort of monstrosity it might conceal and bit back the question.
Progress back toward the mansion was slow. Er Lang moved quietly, pausing to freeze into the shadows or against walls. I had merely to follow his lead as we made a series of hurried sorties, always keeping a lookout for the ever-present household staff. The whole place was burdened with an outdated Chinese ambience that I barely saw in Malaya. I wondered what the afterlives of Sikhs, Tamils, Malays, and Arab traders were like. Indeed, what was the Catholic paradise? For some reason, Tian Bai’s dream of the Portuguese girl Isabel Souza crossed my mind. If she died, I thought, did she have to scuttle around the grounds of a hostile mansion like this? I had my doubts.