Round the Wonderful World

Joyce is seized with a brilliant idea. "Mother," she cries, "those toys we bought in the bazaar! Mayn't I give them to the children?"

Taking leave for granted she flies into her cabin and returns with two gaily painted wooden animals whose legs move on strings; there is a yellow tiger with a red mouth, and a purple monkey. Joyce stands as high as she can on the rail and makes the tiger jump its legs up and down. A yell of delight from the children on the shore shows that she is understood. They plunge into the water like porpoises, and after a minute Joyce drops the tiger straight down. It is a good distance to swim, some fifty yards, perhaps, and the little black heads bob up and down frantically as the youngsters make desperate attempts to get through the water.

Good! Go it! Two little boys about equal size are well ahead of the others and rapidly nearing the prize. It is just a toss-up which gets it; they grab simultaneously, but their fingers close on empty water. The tiger has disappeared, sucked down by something into the depths! Has it been eaten by a fish?

No, there it is, having risen to the surface again some yards distant, grasped by a thin little arm. The owner of the arm emerges the next instant, shaking back her long black hair. It is a small girl, who actually dived under the boys and snatched the prize away! She deserves it, and holding it on high lies on her back and kicks her way back to land with her legs. She is a magnificent swimmer. They all follow her and crowd around her on the shore while she dangles the treasure in the sun, but no one attempts to take it from her.

At the moment everyone has forgotten that there may be more forthcoming, and when Joyce holds up the purple monkey only one tiny podgy fellow sees it, and slipping silently into the water exerts himself tremendously to get well out before the others discover him. He swims slowly, for he is very small, and when he is half-way across the others are after him like a pack of hounds; but he gets the monkey, and turns his bright eager face up to us radiant with delight. One of the elder boys carries his treasure back for him, and by the way the little fellow yields it up readily it is quite evident that he is not in the least afraid of its being taken from him. His faith is justified, for he gets it back directly he lands, and then the children dance round the two lucky ones, singing and making such a noise that a troop of anxious parents hurry down to find out what is the matter. Those toys will be treasures for many a long day.

The steamer screeches and we are off once more. Soon we see a great sugar-loaf hill in the distance, also a perfect forest of pagodas of all shapes and sizes along the river bank. This is Pagahn, a celebrated place, now deserted and melancholy. Imagine a strip of ground eight miles long and two broad, covered by hundreds of pagodas; it is said there are nine thousand nine hundred and ninety-nine, but no one could count them, for half of them are mere heaps of stones, so possibly there may be one more to make a round number! Pagahn was once a capital city, and the then Burman king pulled down some of the pagodas to build up the defences of his walls when he heard that a Chinese king was coming to attack him; but of course he got the worst of it after such an impious act, as anyone would guess, and since then the place has been deserted. Some of the largest pagodas have been restored, which is rather a wonder in Burma as restoration does not make for "merit." You can see the snow-white outlines rising gracefully in the middle of the rough line of uneven buildings. Unluckily, instead of stopping here we go across the river and anchor at Yenangyaung, where there is a very strong smell of something. "I know," Joyce declares, wrinkling up her smooth little nose. "It's lamp oil."

She is right, it is petroleum; there are here wells of it, from which it bursts up with great force sometimes, like a geyser.

If we had been on a tourist steamer we should have visited Pagahn, but then we should have missed seeing much human life.

An evening later the captain comes up to say that there is a pwé, or play, going on in the village near which we have anchored for the night, and wouldn't we like to go to see it? This is a grand chance, because Burmese pwés are very funny things indeed. The people have them at every chance, – births, weddings, deaths, and festivals, none are ever complete without a play!

We dine early, and, accompanied by the captain, set out afterwards, all four of us, for the village. The moon is getting up but is not bright yet, and we can see the trees standing up against a deep blue night sky, with the big bright stars winking at us through the palm fronds. The village street is deserted, and long before we reach the end of it where the pwé is going on we hear an exciting clash of cymbals and bang of drums which sets you and Joyce dancing.

At last, right in the roadway, between the thatched houses, we see a big crowd, and coming up to it find every man, woman, child, and baby belonging to the village seated on the ground or lying in front of a small platform. The platform is simply a few loose boards standing on some boxes, and when anyone walks across it the boards jump up and down. In front are the footlights, a row of earthenware bowls filled with oil, with a lighted wick floating in each one.

The Burman who is giving the pwé and has sent us the message about it comes forward and leads us to the front courteously. He is a portly man with a dress of rich silk so stiff it would stand by itself, and a large fur cape, like those worn by coachmen in England, over his shoulders, for the evenings are sharp. In following him through the crowd we find great difficulty in avoiding stepping on arms and legs which seem to be strewn haphazard on the bare earth, the owners being partly covered up with mats or rugs. Most of the men are squatting gravely with bath-towels over their shoulders – they make convenient wraps. Men and women alike are smoking either huge green cheroots or small brown ones. Our seats are right in front of the stage and consist of a row of soap-boxes. Joyce's mother clutches me in horror. "I can't sit down there," she says with a gasp; "I shall fall over." The captain misunderstands her and gallantly tries one himself, saying, "It holds me, Madam." As he is at least sixteen stone in weight this sends Joyce off into fits of irrepressible giggles, luckily drowned by the band, which is making an ear-splitting noise – "La-la-la, la-la-la!" One man bangs an instrument like those called harmonicons, with slats of metal set across it all the way up. Another is seated inside a tub, the rim of which is entirely composed of small drums; another cracks bamboo clappers together in an agonising way, while clarionets do their best, and a pipe fills in all the intervals it can find.

A girl with a very coquettish gold-embroidered jacket, which stands out behind like two pert wings in the same way as those worn by the princesses at the garden-party, is rouging her face close to us; she gets it to her liking by leaning over the footlights and gazing in a little hand-mirror, then she takes up an enormous cigar which lies smoking beside her and puffs away contentedly till her turn comes.

Two clowns are taking their part; we can't understand a word they say, but their humorous faces and comic gestures are irresistibly funny. Suddenly Golden-Jacket puts down her cigar, springs to her feet, and gets across the shaking boards with marvellous serpentine movements in a skirt tighter even than a modern one, literally a tube wound around her legs. Then, waving her long thin hands and arms so that ripples seem to run up and down them, she sings in a thin shrill voice a long song, while one of the clowns breaks in with "Yes, yes" and "Come on," meant for us and greatly appreciated by the audience. As the song wends toward its end, Golden-Jacket looks behind her more than once, and at last stops and says something out loud.

"She's telling the villain to hurry up or she won't wait for him," explains the captain, who understands Burmese. "She is in a forest. You see the branch of a tree stuck between the boards there? That's the forest. She went to meet her lover, the prince, for she is a princess, of course, but the villain has done his job, and now he's going to catch her."

The princess trills out some more lines, and the villain, who has apparently been having great difficulties with his costume at the back of the stage, in full view of the audience, steps heavily forward, making the boards bounce right up. When she sees him she shrieks and faints in his arms. He makes a long speech holding her. The clowns appear again. The heroine shakes herself free, and with great self-possession squats down once more on the edge of the stage and resumes her cigar until her turn comes again. The branch of the tree is pulled up, and in its place is put a box with a piece of pink muslin over it, while three men in long robes come in and sit down, one on the box and the other two on the boards beside him, and they all talk interminably. The band, which has only stopped impatiently while the actual speaking was going on, clashes in wildly at every possible interval and now drowns the voices altogether for a few minutes, just to remind us it is there. The men on the stage continue repeating their parts, whether it plays or not, and apparently they are so long winded that the plot does not suffer at all from the sentences which are lost in the noise.

"That's her father, the king," explains the captain. "He is taking counsel from his ministers how to recover his daughter and punish the villain. She's a boy, of course – they all are."

We can hardly believe it! The slender form, the graceful movements, the long thin fingers, the wonderful management of that terrible skirt, the coquettish movements! You can hardly imagine any British boy doing it, can you?

We are beginning to have about enough of it after a couple of hours, though the Burmans themselves comfortably settle down all night, and there are pwés that go on for days. What with the clashing music, the thick smoke in the air, the strange language, and a kind of dreaminess over everything, it is too much for Joyce, and she suddenly flops her head down on my shoulder in a profound slumber, hugely to your delight.

Her mother's cry of "Joyce!" brings her to herself with a crimson face, and I see you get a surreptitious kick for giggling, which you richly deserve!

We make a move, thank the Burmese entertainer, explain we have to be off early in the morning, and try to get out without setting our feet on anyone's head!

"Why, it has been snowing!" you cry in amazement as we get clear. It does look like it. The moon is full and white, high in the heavens, and shows up the dust which lies thickly over the village in a mantle of white.

I think Joyce is asleep most of the way back. "I feel as if I were drugged," she says as we haul her up the gangway.

Next day at sunrise we are off.

After golden hours of placid slipping down the shining waterway we pull up at about five for the night, and having finished tea we four sally forth for a walk, little dreaming what is going to happen.

Joyce's mother is a most attractive woman. She is well read, very keenly alive, and has travelled a great deal. She and I have much in common, and, I must say, as I help her across the paddy fields I forget all about you two.

It is not until we turn to go home that I miss you.

"They can't be far," I say reassuringly, and give a loud cooee, but there is no response.

"They can't possibly come to harm here," I say. "There is nothing to hurt them," and I shout again.

"Perhaps they have circled round and gone back to the ship another way," Joyce's mother suggests, and we turn. Darkness falls very quickly here, and it is dark before we get on board, but in answer to our anxious questions we find no one has seen anything of you.

Joyce's mother is very brave and sensible, but I can see that her heart is torn with anxiety. I try to comfort her by telling her that you are as good as a man, and have been brought up to look after yourself, but it makes little difference. She agrees, however, to remain on the steamer while the captain and I and a couple of Lascars with lanterns go forth again.

What a night we have of it! We wander far and wide, calling and waving the lights with no result, and when we come back in the grey dawn, with troubled hearts, there is still no news.

"Someone has taken them in," says the captain. "They're queer fellows, these Burmans; they daren't go out at nights for fear of spooks. You'll see they'll bring them safely back in the morning."

And he is right, for, as the sky flashes rosy red, we see you afar off coming across the fields. A sight you are, indeed, as you come nearer, with your torn clothes and scratched faces! But Joyce's mother gives a cry of joy and precipitates herself across the flat and along the gangway, hatless, and clasps her daughter in her arms as if she would never let her go again. You and I are not so emotional, but I'm jolly glad to see you again!

You shall tell your story in your own words. I wrote it down exactly as you told it to me, so that your people might have it.

CHAPTER XXV

JIM'S STORY

Joyce's a brick. She can do most things boys can, and we soon began racing each other along those little raised bits of earth between the beds in the paddy fields. I splashed right in once or twice and we shrieked with laughter. By and by we found ourselves through that and out on a flat place covered with thorns. They weren't very high mostly, and we didn't feel them through our shoes, but now and again one caught us on the ankles and then didn't we hop! By the time we had reached the road I suppose we had lost sight of you altogether. I didn't think about it. I just had a feeling we must scramble on in that fizzing red sunset light, and then when we got tired turn plump round and go straight back to the ship the same way. I didn't really think about it, though.

The road? Yes, it was a sort of a road, at least it was a clear space marked all over with deep ruts and lined by little trees, and it ran ever so far both ways, as Euclid says a line does. The first thing we saw were two huge elephants, striding along with a wooden thing on the neck of one, banging and rattling as his head went up and down. A man was sitting on his neck and he took no notice of us at all, but they – the elephants, I mean – just loped along in that swinging way they do; I think it must make anyone sea-sick to be on their backs. We stared at them till they got far away. Then I discovered that the little trees were mimosa, which shrivel up when you touch them. They had dropped seeds on the ground, I suppose, for under them were tiny little mimosas, not trees but scrub stuff. Joyce had never seen any, and when I rubbed my hand across them and she saw them wither up, she cried out, "What a shame! Dear little things, don't be afraid of me!" and plumped herself down beside them to cuddle them, but they withered more than ever. How we laughed! The ones I had withered first were just beginning to come right again, and I was going to make them shut up once more, and she had caught my hand to stop me, when we heard a noise and looked up, and there was a great buffalo coming right at us with his nose stuck up straight in the air as if he smelt something nasty. You never saw anything so comic! Joyce cried out, "Oh, what a darling!" But into my head, quick as lightning, came what you told me about buffaloes, who hate Europeans savagely, though a Burmese child of four can drive them with a twig. I grabbed Joyce's hand and pulled her up, and then I saw he was coming for us and no mistake, with his nose up in that absurd fashion, and his great horns sticking out. We made a bolt for the nearest tree just as the buffalo plunged across the place we had been, like a runaway motor-car. Then he stopped and looked funny. All at once he caught sight of my topee, which had fallen off and rolled away a bit, and up went his nose again, and when he reached it down went his head and into it like a battering-ram; and didn't he make the clods fly as he spiked his horns into it. The trees were not very high, and had smooth stems so far up, and then a lot of branches. If we could get up there we'd be all right.

"Get up the tree, Joyce," I whispered. "I'll boost you."

So I did, shoving her up for all I was worth, and she hung on as high as she could reach, and there she stuck; even the best girls aren't quite like boys.

"Swarm up it," I urged.

"I can't," she said in an agonised voice, and I saw it was true, her petticoats were to blame, of course; any boy would have been up before you could say "knife."

Down she came again with a thud, and old Mr. Buffalo heard it and made for us like a fiend. We ran for the next tree and dodged him round it; it was a bit too exciting! He made rushes at us dead straight, and we tried always to keep the trunk of the tree between us and him as if it were the leader in Fox and Geese. When he came past like a bolt we ran the other side, but once or twice he nearly spiked us, and if he had knocked one of us down, or we had stumbled, it would have been all up with us. It was exhausting too. I was fearfully out of breath myself; being on a steamer a fellow can't keep in training, and as for Joyce, she was panting so that she couldn't speak.

Then I noticed that across the road was a jungly thicket; it was not open ground, as it was on the side we had come from, and I thought if we could reach that we might perhaps lose the gentleman, or he would lose us.

So I explained to Joyce in gasps that the next time he charged we must run behind his back and bolt across the road; she nodded and clutched my hand tighter than ever.

So we did it and were half-way over the road – it was very wide – before he found it out.

All the time, I must tell you, he had been making a funny little noise, a bit between a grunt and squeak, quite ridiculous for a huge black hairy beast like him; if I had had any breath to waste it would have made me laugh.

Now we heard that funny little noise – Uweekuweekuweek – just like that, coming over the road; we hadn't time to look. Never did any road I ever crossed seem so long; it was like a bad dream. We slipped and stumbled and didn't seem to make any headway, and every moment I expected to feel that great head in the flat of my back sending me sprawling ready to be spiked. At last we reached the line of bushes, and I gave Joyce a great pull with all my strength to pitch her to one side, for he was close on us then, and she went headlong and fell full length into the bushes, and I dropped on the top of her just as his majesty thundered past.

We lay there quiet as mice, though it was awfully uncomfortable; I was squashing Joyce to bits, and great thorns seemed running into me all over. Then a dreadful thought occurred to me – there were probably snakes there! Which was worst, snakes or the buffalo? And I asked cautiously —

"Have you been stung, Joyce?" and she answered so gravely, "Not yet," that I exploded, and, would you believe it, that old animal that had been rootling about in the bushes to find us, heard it and came at us again. We scrambled up and ran, tripping and tearing and crashing on into that wood, and I think he found some difficulty in following us, for after a while we couldn't hear him any more.

We stopped and listened with all our ears, but it seemed as if we were safe, for he wasn't a crafty animal and didn't know enough to come along quietly and surprise us. It was very dark there in that jungle, and for the first time I thought of you and how anxious you and Joyce's mother would be. So I said, "Come along home now," and pulled hold of Joyce. But she resisted and said, "It's not that way, silly; it's just the opposite."

I was positive and so was she.

I tried to think of all the things one tells by: the stars, but there weren't any, and I couldn't have done much with them if there had been; the moss on the north side of the trees, but there didn't seem to be any. I guess it's different in Burma. However, there was just a yellowish glow still, and I knew that must be in the west, and as the river runs north and south, and we were on the left bank, I guessed the way I wanted to go was about right. When I had proved it to Joyce she gave in and said she had said it all the time, just as women always do!

So we walked and walked, but we never came to that old road again. Once I thought I'd found it, but it was only some open, flat, thorny ground. It was very dark then, the dark comes on so fast here. Suddenly we both began to run as hard as we could, hand in hand; I don't know why, something set us off and I felt just as if I must, and I suppose Joyce did too, and then – crash! – before we knew where we were – smash! – we were flying, slipping, tobogganing down through some bushes, with our feet shooting out under us, and at last we reached the bottom. It was a steep gully, a kind of nullah. When we did get down we arrived separately, for we had had to let go to save ourselves. I was awfully sore, I know, and I wondered what had happened to her, being a girl and so much softer. But she didn't seem to mind much, for when I sang out, she answered quite cheerfully, "I'm sitting in the middle of a bramble bush like a bumble-bee. Do they sit in bushes, though? I think I'm getting a little mixed!"

A girl like that is a jolly good pal, I can tell you!

It was a snaky place and that is what I was afraid of. We trod carefully along the bottom and made noises to scare them off. Then I had a happy thought; I had a box of matches with me, and I kept on striking them till we found a handful of dry twigs which burnt up finely. It was so still there that they blazed straight and steady, and I used them as a torch and flourished them about low down as we walked.

I don't know if we really did see any snakes. Joyce is quite positive she counted fourteen, sliding away in front of the light at different times; but then she sees things much quicker than I do.

It took us a long time to get out of that nullah, and we tried all sorts of different ways, but the sides were too steep. Often we had to stop to get more twigs, and once, just as I had got a handful, Joyce said, "Why, there are little plums growing on them." We ate quite a lot, and they were refreshing and bitter, but it didn't mean much, for they were all skin and stone.

The nullah sloped up at the end, and after a good deal of hard work I hauled her up. It was jolly cold, I can tell you, and when we saw a light moving about ahead we made a bee-line for it. Joyce thought it was a will-o'-the-wisp; she had never seen one, but she had read of them, and she said they moved up and down just like that. We had to plunge through a lot of very marshy ground before we got to it, and sometimes we lost sight of it altogether; but it came again, and then it went out for good. We arrived at a high thorny hedge and I shouted, and then there was such a noise you would have thought the world was coming to an end, – dogs barking, cocks crowing, people chattering, and at last a man with a lantern crept out from the hedge – it must have been his light we had seen – and he was followed by heaps of others, all Burmans, and they waved the light about; and when they saw who we were, and that we were alone, they were very kind and took us in through an opening in the hedge, and kicked the dogs away. We couldn't see much inside, for the moon wasn't up then, but they led us to a house, and made us go up a ladder on to a verandah and into a nice wooden room, where there was a civilised oil lamp on a bracket, and several women and children sitting and lying about on mats on the floor.

Joyce looked at me and I at her and we both knew what sights we were, all scratched and torn and muddy. Her dress had been white when we started, but you could hardly tell that now. I don't know how she felt, but I was glad to drop down on to a mat they gave us. We tried to explain who we were, but no one understood any English. Then they brought us some water from a great jar in the corner; they handed it to us in half a coco-nut, but it smelt so that we couldn't touch it, though we were awfully thirsty. So one of the men who had followed us in took up a round green thing with a smooth shell outside (I never knew coco-nuts looked like that before), and with his great knife made four cuts across the top in a neat square, and took out the piece as if it were a lid, and offered us the nut, making signs we were to drink it. Joyce tried first and nodded with pleasure. "It's good," she said, and it was! A sort of sickly sweet stuff came out like sugary water, and when you drank a lot of it it made you feel very full inside suddenly. When I read about coco-nut milk in Swiss Family Robinson I always thought it was really like milk.