Had he found guidance, someone to make him look into his own heart, the boy would have understood that everything endured since leaving Pulau Tua more than qualified as a demonstration of courage. With help, he would have then plucked certainty from doubt and gathered about him a degree of direction despite the ambiguity of his situation. But to him suffering had become normal, the apparent ordinariness of his life away from Pulau Tua obscuring the fact of its irregularity.
This childish acceptance had in the past proved helpful, easing difficult times, but it had also clouded his judgment and prevented him from separating what was acceptable from that which constituted a violation of his human rights. In his homeland he had always embraced convention and here he felt there was little choice but to do the same, or at the very least he should be tolerant of it. Acquiescence aside, it had taken enormous inner strength to consistently accept this new life, and despite repeatedly trying to justify the logic of other’s heartlessness in order to get by, it was his desire to be worthy of Manhood that really kept him from killing anyone.
He contemplated his ability to cope, and often convinced himself that Step Four had indeed already been completed. But it was always a reluctant thought and as fast as he was persuaded, so his conviction would falter, as if his terror had not been great enough and tolerance too easily found. Youth and pride made conspiratorial partners, and the same attributes that helped carry him through hard times were beginning to stand in his way, single-minded determination blinding him to the worth of resilience. Bee told him repeatedly that he was the bravest person she had ever met, but somehow even her opinion, usually held in the highest regard, was not sufficient to convince an adolescent determined to believe otherwise.
When he saw life as it really was, and allowed himself a few moments to think that all he had suffered was enough and that sequence was flexible, the boy calculated he had completed three Steps in less than three years, which seemed to him an appropriate pace. He did not know for certain how the Steps should be spread, for the one thing he had missed in all his observations was timing, but from what he could remember there was no set pace. It began somewhere between ten and twelve years of age and finished at about sixteen or seventeen, maybe eighteen. Since arriving in Britain, he had matured considerably, racing towards manhood, his bedroom removed from view when the boy’s need for privacy became a pressing matter some months after arriving. Even so, he had a long way to go and he knew it.
It was not only stubbornness that kept him from accepting Step Four was complete, but also an adolescent desire for more dramatic success. He could not know it, but the island elders would have disagreed with such a need for glory. They would have told him that inner strength is all that bravery is: the capability to overcome fear rather than the ability to eliminate it. Eradication of such a thing can destroy the capacity to empathise, they would have said, and as often as empathy will take a man to war it is more likely to keep him from it. But there were no elders, not a single soul he felt could help.
Whatever had gone before, however pliable he had allowed himself to become, the growing boy was beginning to feel his own will as a distinct power, a solid force with ever-lessening flexibility. Slowly he began to see a different truth, a new way of being, and secretly he felt this inner strength would one day be enough to propel him back across the sea no matter what Giles threw at him in the meantime. As the child within morphed and gave way, he realised it was possible to have a future he could own.
THE ORDER OF LOVE
No one had called the boy ‘the boy’ for a very long time, at least not in his presence. It was Giles that renamed him, and despite accusations from some, it was not his need to display authority or stake a claim that drove it, but simply that when the boy’s name was eventually revealed it was impossible to pronounce. To the ear of an English speaker it was more of a guttural grunt than a clear word, and nothing like the plainly spoken languages of those countries bordering his native island.
After much laughter from the boy as others spoke his name back to him, it was understood to mean in rhythm with the elements. Both Felix and Bee had been determined to learn it, adamant that the boy had every right to be addressed by his own name since it was now possible to do so, at first making certain always to use it. Grandfather and granddaughter were overwhelmed by the power it inferred and it was this elemental sense – the spiritual essence – that in part fuelled their desire for resurrection. But as so often happens, the leisurely pace of time overwhelmed good intention and slowly but surely they dropped the old and difficult in favour of new and easy.
Most felt Giles had been unusually sympathetic in his choice of name and he had surprised them with his sensitivity, for many had been expecting him to name the boy after himself or perhaps even one of his childhood heroes. But Giles had proved himself worthy of the task, and for once was commended rather than condemned.
He named him simply Tuan, from the island of Tua in English but meaning bright and intelligent in other languages, and a respectful form of male address in Malay. Such connectivity pleased everyone enormously. The name meant absolutely nothing to the boy but he accepted it because Bee could not say his actual name, whatever she believed herself. Hearing her attempts had provided him with the first excuse to laugh heartily since leaving Pulau Tua and only he knew the real reason for his mirth. His mother tongue, like mandarin, was based on subtlety of tone, but rather than three tones there were five. It was an extraordinarily difficult language to learn. Felix had been the worst offender, and when he and Bee finally gave up the cause and surrendered to the new, the name Fart passed into history with more than a little relief.
During his time at Whitegate, Tuan learned to speak, read and write in English, extensively co-scripting his own language for historical record and the assessment of others. Rousing much interest, it was discovered that Tuan’s command of sound was absolute. He spoke his new language, English, exactly as it was taught. Impeccably. Giles observed with satisfaction the change from victim to proactive student, and Tuan spent hours in the lounge room reading the many books that Giles himself had placed there. Giles did his upmost to provide a diverse education, to offer support and, ultimately, friendship, touched as he eventually was by the boy’s willing and easy manner. No longer disappointed by his lack of rebellion, Giles was proud of it. In fact, the truth was Giles had come to love Tuan as a son. It was impossible not to. He had watched the captured child form a cocoon only to emerge bright and beautiful. Such was his depth of feeling, he even asked him to leave Whitegate and live with him in the big house. Tuan refused, still more at ease in the company of whitecoats than with Giles. The rejection was wounding, leaving a rip where Giles-the-unloved and unlovable had started to feel complete. But Tuan did feel something strong and positive for him, although who could say if it was love. He had read all about Stockholm syndrome from a textbook, but the facts did not matter because Tuan’s affection was the sum of its parts, even after dissection.
*
When Tuan learned from Bee about the libraries of the outside world he begged Giles to take him to one, claiming not to care about the photographers and film crews ensconced behind heavily guarded barriers, occasionally finding a way to light the rooms with their flashes of desperation. The days of anonymity were over, suspicions regarding a striped boy long since confirmed. The world had drawn in one huge, shocked, collective breath, and eighteen months on was in the process of slowly releasing it.
Giles declined the request, but pressed for details of what was wanted so urgently that exposure to the untrustworthy masses didn’t matter. How could there be such a need when the Internet could fill just about every gap imaginable? And what could the boy say in response? That he needed to define courage, define manhood, define himself, without leaving a cyber trail? Bee had warned him about those. And what book could he ask for? It was too much to reveal to a man like Giles, someone who took and used information as if to do so were a right, so Tuan floundered.
In response, Giles promised to buy more books.
*
Giles resisted stubbornly for as long as he could but eventually the City Library became a regular haunt for both Bee and Tuan. When she visited him from home, they would steal out under the noses of the press, hidden beneath folded blankets to drive an ever-changing convoluted route around quiet backstreets, before sliding in the side-door with the help of the chief librarian. They never went there from Bee’s house. Bee’s house was a place saved for different activities, a sanctuary for eating with family, for laughing.
Bee enjoyed public attention and felt like a film star but Tuan was less impressed. He did not have the luxury of enjoying it vicariously and did not share the same desire for celebrity afflicting his peers. Every time he watched television with Bee he would despair as she raved about being picked for one of the multitude of reality television shows that Giles said blighted programming. Tuan never felt tempted himself, either despite, or because of, the ease with which it was all happening to him anyway. He felt only confused by the common yearning to be famous – more commonly, infamous – for having achieved absolutely nothing of worth.
Whilst television had limited draw, the library fascinated Tuan and when asked why, he could never describe exactly what it was he found so appealing. It was many things yet nothing. Perhaps it represented that first taste of freedom; perhaps it was simply the enforced peace. City Library was an historic building, the high ceilings vast, rooms open and wide, rising walls of books so expansive they were necessarily intersected by narrow platforms rising behind winding steps. Dark wood gleamed, deeply polished by years of use and loving care; silence brushed the air. But whilst in awe, the array of books and ladders, drawers and computers no more overwhelmed him in their potential complexity than the jungle that shaped his childhood. So perhaps the appeal was a subtle one, subdued lighting with shafts of brightness creating a certain familiarity; a soulful silence easily disturbed, like the quiet of an early morning mist broken by the first whoop of a monkey.
*
It was the City Library that enabled Tuan to move forward a Step. One day, standing amongst books from around the world, the impassioned works of thousands, he wondered if this had been the purpose of it all. Had the spirits allowed him to live so he could experience this? For this place, he knew, contained more knowledge than he would ever be able to absorb. He thought it beautiful, realising that although it was not possible to know everything at least in opening his mind, something new would be discovered. He ticked off Step Three, which, as it turned out, was less boring than he thought. It wasn’t a performed ritual, and not at all like his friend’s brother who had to take over the running of three families domestic needs for three difficult and miserable days, but he felt it completely and that was enough. His mind, already empathetic, was now open to the reality of infinite possibility. That surely was a form of Enlightenment. The very same day, the much-debated Step Four also careered into completion in categorical fashion.
Shortly after arriving, Bee went off to the section on historical dress to finish a school project, claiming she could appreciate her teacher’s view that researching this sort of thing by book might offer more immediate depth than trawling the Internet, whilst moaning about it equally. For a while, Tuan wandered amongst the aisles alone carrying the air of confidence that suited him so well, either oblivious to the startled looks of others or not caring. He had stopped hiding his face. His mother had often told him not to let this natural self-assurance overtake him, to be wary of it, to use it wisely and purposefully lest it use him. According to his mother, his father had preached those same words often when Tuan was a very small boy. But still the man succumbed and allowed self-belief to develop into a self-destructive egotism that he paid for with his life. Let that be a warning to you, his mother had repeatedly cautioned, conceit is a shark biting at your leg. How can you rise and join the Moon with a shark busily eating you? In fact the shark had eaten his father entirely, and he was the last man Tuan knew of to test the Faith by trying to leave the island. His mother had struggled after that, her own injuries – sustained while trying to save him – making for difficult days as a single-minded woman, determined to make the best of things without help.
‘Watcha got?’ he whispered, having decided to seek out Bee, flipping shut one of her books so he could read the cover.
‘Some stuff on clothing in the last century… well the century before that, actually.’ She groaned. ‘God I sound like my mum.’ Bee pushed him an open book and indicated a picture, ‘Men in the West used to wear that sort of thing in the old days.’ Bee laughed quietly, pointing at a man trussed up in a frock coat, ‘Amazing, huh? Bit different than a loin cloth.’
‘Why don’t men wear it now?’ It was an innocently framed question.
Quietly, Bee laughed.
‘Why don’t they?’
She rolled her eyes a little, ‘Fashion. I told you before that people change what they wear to stay in fashion. Don’t tell me you didn’t have any fashion. I won’t believe you.’ She paused as a librarian sauntered by pushing a trolley of returns. ‘I bet you wore stuff just to look nice. If you did, well, that was fashion. People always have fashion.’
‘I thought you said fashion changes, isn’t that what it means? Fashion. I never changed anything, I wore what my forefathers wore.’ He was puzzled.
‘Shush. Don’t speak so loud. Well okay, then,’ Bee whispered, ‘YOU didn’t have fashion where you used to live, but we’ve always had it.’ She turned back to her notes, shaking her head. ‘Anyway. I’ve got tons to get on with. Go and find something to do. Talk later.’ She flipped open the book he had shut, and began thumbing the pages. ‘Go on. Off you go.’ He didn’t move. ‘Shoo!’
Tuan picked up a different book and began browsing the pages. ‘So where do people get this stuff?’ he asked. He liked the look of what he saw.
Bee sighed, ‘They don’t.’
‘It must be possible.’
‘Tuan, I am trying to work.’
He looked at her and smiled gently, ‘I know. And I’m trying to ask questions. Answer my questions and you can get back to work.’ Her face changed from eye-slamming irritation to something he couldn’t read; the flicker of a different mood. ‘Well?’ he prompted.
‘Fine. You can’t get any of it. It’s from way back.’
‘What? It’s just… gone?’
‘Yeah. Gone. Why? You planning to wear it?’ She hiccupped a small laugh, for the moment oblivious to how close she had come to the truth, ‘I imagine it’s possible to get a copy made. Perhaps an animal print?’ she grinned, ‘God. Imagine clothes clashing with your own skin! Excellent!’
He raised an eyebrow, ‘Listen Plain Face,’ he whispered, ‘I don’t need you to tell me what to wear. I’ll wear what I like…’ His eyes were trained on the illustration, intention now obvious.
‘Tuan! It’s a terrible idea. You can’t. And Mum doesn’t like you calling me Plain Face and nor do I. She says it’s rude.’
‘But you are plain.’
‘I know. But it doesn’t mean what you think it means. Not to her. Anyway, you can’t wear… that.’
‘I can.’
‘No way.’
‘Yes way.’
‘Come on. You’re not serious, are you? Really?’
‘Really. If you think I can get it made…’
‘That sort of thing would have to be made, you can’t buy it anywhere unless you go to a fancy dress shop.’
Black eyes sparkled.
‘No! Fancy dress shops sell stuff to look like something, not to be that something. It would be crap. But wherever it comes from you’re going to need to be able to run very fast so you don’t get beaten up every five minutes.’
‘You mean that I might stand out….’
Bee threw her hands up in defeat. ‘You already stand out, Tuan,’ she hissed.
‘I know. It was a joke.’
‘What I mean is, you’l
l look weird.’
‘You could help me find someone, though, Bee, couldn’t you? To make it?’
‘Me? How would I know where to go?’
‘You help me with many things.’
‘Oh, I get it. Basically, I’m your life coach but I’m not allowed to tell you what clothes you should or should not wear?’
He nodded. Another librarian passed, casting the evil eye.
Bee lowered her head, stretching out her neck as if ducking for cover. ‘I’d like to know why you want to wear something like that?’ she whispered, ‘I mean, are you serious? It’s not in, not in at all. Why don’t you get some Converse and black jeans, a tee shirt with a picture on it, something like that? It’s what all the other boys I know are wearing.’
‘Actually I read somewhere that everything is ‘in’.’
‘You what? I thought you didn’t know anything about fashion. And where did you read that? I bet it was in some old lady mag at Nana and Pappy’s.’
Tuan smiled.
‘Hah! It was!’
A shushing sound came.
‘Look, Tuan,’ Bee went on, voice hushed, ‘A person who looks like you needs a studded belt, tight jeans, designer tee. You need decent stuff, so get a decent magazine to look at… and not another old lady mag. Honestly, Stripes, what are you like?’
Bee seemed to call him some camouflage related nickname more and more. Coming from her mouth, whatever it was, he loved it. ‘But you’ll help me find someone. To make it?’
‘Oh my God. You are serious.’ Bee placed a hand over her mouth to suppress a giggle.
‘Will you?’ he grinned.
‘Fine,’ she sighed, ‘but it will cost you. It’s not cheap to have clothes tailor-made. I know. Dad had a suit made once. Mum nearly had a heart attack. Will Giles give you some money?’