Finding Moon

The dike must have been built to hold back the Mekong at its full end-of-monsoon flood, with a stack of sandbags ready to replace the gate when the water rose. Moon could barely see over the wall, and it would make the APC invisible from the road. The roof of the house had been partly burned away. if a napalm bomber had done it he must have arrived on a wet day. Moon guessed the napalm tank had landed short, detonating in the paddy with only the last of it slashing over the dike to hit the roof. A section of palm fronds and their supports had burned out, but the fire hadn’t been hot enough to do more than scorch the bamboo walls. The floor- raised on the inevitable stilts-still looked solid.

Moon found himself feeling optimistic again. Osa, Lum Lee, and Nung could stay here until he got back. Or, if he didn’t get back, until time to meet the “shure boot” from the Glory of the Sea. With perfect luck no one would notice them in the bloody confusion of the war’s finale. With fair luck anyone who found them would be friendly. Even with bad luck-being found by desperate ARVN deserters or vengeful Vietcong-their prospects were at least as good as his.

Osa was waving to him from the floor. “One room is dry,” she said. “And most of another one.”

Time to get moving. Moon picked up his Langenscheidt map of Southeast Asia and climbed down into the mud.

Osa was standing in the partly dry room with Nung beside her, gri

He unfolded the map Rice had marked, spread it on the floor, and squatted beside it.

“Here’s the plan,” Moon said.

It was a simple plan. Moon would take the APC northwest into Cambodia and collect Osa’s brother, his niece, and Mr. Lum Lee’s ancestral bones. That done, he would return to this house. Meanwhile, Osa, Lum Lee, and Nguyen Nung would wait here, keeping out of sight. Upon his return, when the third day was up, they would take Nung’s boat and sail away to the mouth of the Mekong and their rendezvous with the shore boat from the Glory of the Sea.

“Okay?” Moon asked. “Does everybody agree?”

“No,” Osa said. “It’s crazy. It’s insane.”

Lum Lee looked thoughtful. Nguyen Nung looked curious, waiting for a translation.

“Why insane?” Moon asked. “if you lie low here, there’s a good chance nobody will find you. At least nobody hostile. And if I’m not back by-”

“No,” Osa said. “You stay here. We should all go together.”

She looked frightened, Moon thought. He hadn’t really seen that before. Plenty of chances to be frightened, but she hadn’t let it show.

“You’ll be all right,” he said. “I’ll go take care of things. Find your brother. I’ll make him come back even if-”

“He’s already dead.”

That stopped Moon, the illogic of it.

“Yesterday you were sure he’d still be alive. Even this morning. Did you hear something on the radio?”

Moon looked from Osa to Lum Lee. He thought

he saw amusement in Mr. Lee’s expression, but that must be wrong.

“We heard that Pol Pot has concentrated his forces at Phnom Penh,” Lee said. “We picked up a broadcast that sounded official from Kampong Cham. The man was ordering all the people of that city to gather out on the highway for something. I think it was some work project, but the signal faded in and out.”

“And from Thailand,” Osa said, “they were broadcasting interviews with refugees who’d gotten across the border. They said-” She shuddered. “It was terrible, what they were saying the Khmer Rouge was doing to people. It was even worse than what I remember from Indonesia when they were killing the Chinese.”

“But that’s not the point,” Moon said. “How about your brother? Was there anything to tell you he’s not still alive?”

“How could he be? He’s exactly the sort of people they were beating to death.”

“But if Pol Pot pulled everybody north to clean out Phnom Penh, then down here in the south end of the country they wouldn’t have had time-”

“No, no,” Osa said. “He is already dead.”

Intuition, Moon thought. That and too much fatigue. Too much stress. No wonder she has given up. It would be much harder on her, not having any control over things. It was more than anyone should have to bear.

“Possibly you’re right,” he said. “But if I can find him, I’ll bring him out.”

Osa said something fiercely emphatic that Moon didn’t understand, probably in Dutch and, judging from her expression, probably an expletive. But before she looked away, he thought she was crying.

“What?” Moon said.

“I said, Why are men so damned stubborn? So unreasonable. Like donkeys. So stupid.”

“Well,” Moon said, a little irked by this, “if you will just remember when you met me in Manila, you will remember my purpose in coming here was to get Ricky’s daughter and bring her home. There’s nothing unreasonable about that.”

“But it’s not possible now. Mr. Rice flew away in the helicopter. Before that it was possible. Now it’s only being stubborn. You just go in and get killed. How does that help anybody?”

“Nguyen can run the boat. Nguyen and Mr. Lee. You don’t need me.”

Silence. Moon had been looking at Lum Lee when he made that statement. He looked back at Osa. Her face was no longer pale. It was flushed.

“I can run that damned boat myself,” she said. “I was just trying to save your stupid life.”

“Oh,” Moon said.

“Go ahead, then,” Osa said. “Go up there among Pol Pot’s savages and let them beat you to death with their bamboo poles.”

“Look,” Moon said.

“My stubborn brother has to die so he can be a martyr. Why do you want to die?”

“I just-” Moon began, but Osa had stalked out into the courtyard.

Leaving behind a strained silence.

Nguyen Nung was smiling foolishly past his bandages, looking abashed, waiting to learn if he needed a translation of all that.

Mr. Lee had his eyes on Moon Mathias, looking thoughtful.

“Well, hell,” Moon said, finally. “What brought all that on?”

Mr. Lee looked down at the map, concealing most of a smile.

“Fatigue,” Moon said. “Nervous tension. Women. Stress.” He glanced at Nung, seeking confirmation. Nung looked puzzled. Mr. Lee was still studying the map and still seemed to be amused. Something was going on here that Moon didn’t understand.

“I, too, find a flaw in your plan,” Mr. Lee said.

“What?” Moon wasn’t in the mood for any more of this.

“I must go with you,” Lum Lee said.

“Why? You describe the urn for me. It has to be fairly large to hold a man’s bones. I find it and I bring it back. if it turns out you’ve had to leave to meet Glory of the Sea, then I drop the urn off for you at that hotel in Manila. Or you give me another address.”

Lee looked at him.

“You can trust me,” Moon said.

“Of course I can,” Mr. Lee said. “But I confront a task that only one who understands feng shui can perform.”

“Feng shui. So you tell me what to do. Just explain it to me.”

Mr. Lee chuckled. “I believe the best explanation was written by a Taoist scholar in the nineteenth century,” he said. “It runs to fifty-three volumes.”

“Oh,” Moon said.

“Very complicated. Perhaps a thousand years before God inspired men in the Middle East with your Western vision of Genesis, he inspired men in India with the word of the relationship between God and humans, how the world works, and how humans must behave to endure and reach a better life. It spread from India to China and through all of Asia. As the centuries passed, more holy inspiration followed. The Lord Buddha taught us and Confucius and others endowed with spiritual wisdom. But behind it all is feng shui, our understanding of the cosmic supernatural.”