The Jester and Other Stories by Adrian Sturgess

  Are we still passing through the plains, or are we already in the tunnels? How fast are we travelling? How far do we still have to go? I am thirsty and I remember that I do have a small vial of water. I drink sparingly. How long will my water have to last? Will they feed us before we fight? Once again, the voice calls out, ‘God help us. God help us. God…’ Mercifully, the voice then drops below the level of audibility.

  So far, I have tried to focus my thoughts on anything which will keep them from drifting towards my young family, for that way lies emotional ruin. Angela, my wife of ten-years and my children, Sam and Clara; seven and nine years old. What will become of them? I love them all dearly; Clara is still so young, but I already see so much of Angela in her. She will surely grow up to be just as beautiful. I know that they will be looked after and will want for nothing; I have been promised that much. Perhaps, I will survive and return to them! But no; there will be no return. This train will make the return trip empty, I know that. We all know that.

  I mutter under my breath, ‘God, please help me. Help me to have the courage to get through this and especially, help Angela and give her the strength that she will need, to face her own intolerable burden.’ I turn onto my stomach and wedge my fingers back into my ears and I am racked with a pain that I don’t know how to contain. I have tried to keep myself strong, but my thoughts are pulled by some force that is stronger than me, back to Angela. She is jut a few carriages away from me and travelling just as I am, in the same intolerable conditions. She will be just as capable as me of exploiting our enemy’s solitary vulnerability.

  Our children will be nurtured and raised to adulthood and I just pray that, if we can defeat the enemy, they will live their lives out in peace. That is the only thing that I can hope for.

  A Close Encounter

  We walked arm in arm towards the moon and the path ahead was awash with moonbeams shining like some magical carpet. We walked swiftly for the most part but, occasionally, we stopped and scanned the sky for stars. There were plenty of stars above us and I pointed out the constellations of Cassiopeia and Cygnus. T wanted to see Vega and I was able to point out the blue-white star almost directly overhead. I pressed her to tell me the significance of this star but, at first, she wouldn’t say.

  I was curious, sensing some past romantic connection, and at last, she relented. ‘I’ve told you before of my Hungarian boyfriend…’ she began hesitantly.

  Indeed she had. I knew little about him other than he was an astrophysicist and that she had once felt it impossible to love a person more than she had loved him. She had spent just two weeks with him in Hungary before having to return to Hong Kong. They had remained in contact by letter for some time, before his increasingly despairing tone had become an unbearable weight to her and she had ceased contact with him. Despite, evidently, still having strong feelings for him. I once asked her why she had never returned to him, as she had promised to do, when she left him.

  ‘If I had gone back to him then he would never have let me go again,’ was her reply.

  I had once seen a small black and white photograph of him that he had given to her. He was not looking into the camera, but was instead, gazing downwards with some concentration. What T saw when she looked at the photograph and what memories it evoked, I really couldn’t say and mercifully, she never indicated this to me. But, I suspect it was one of her very few mementoes of a man whom she had described to me as, ‘almost metaphysical’ and had once been absolutely central to her life. Instinctively, I had started to turn the photograph over but she had stopped me and so I did not see what was written on the back. Some time later, I had rediscovered the photograph, when she was not with me. I had, briefly, struggled with my conscience, before placing the photograph back with the others, unturned.

  ‘Yes you did mention him,’ I muttered, without enthusiasm.

  ‘It was his favourite star, that’s all.’

  We walked for a little while in silence. The air was warm and in fact I was sweating quite profusely in the high humidity of a Hong Kong summer night. The insects were beginning to make themselves felt and we stopped frequently to scratch our lower legs and to apply ointment. We knew, from the map, that the path should take us eventually to a point from which we could descend down a footpath to a camping area by the sea.

  Throughout our walk the sea lay across to our left and the friendly moon lay ahead of us beckoning us ever onward. At one point, having walked for perhaps two hours, we arrived at a place where the sea lay below us, maybe just a few hundred yards down a steep slope, covered in grass and small prickly shrubs. I wandered down the slope a short distance to see if I could find a suitable place for us to settle down for the night, but there was something about the location which threatened too many creepy-crawlies and slithering reptilians, so we carried on along the road.

  Ahead, and to our right, lay higher ground leading to the hills that formed the inner part of the island. The moon quietly bid us goodnight and slipped out of sight behind these hills. We were now truly alone and we fumbled in the rucksack for T’s small torch-radio. It didn’t cast a very strong light, but it was nevertheless comforting and it brought to my mind the image of Tom Sawyer lost in the caves, with only candles to light the darkness, as, one by one, the candles are used up and finally the last candle sputters and dies. The torch beam began to turn an ever fainter shade of yellow and it wasn’t long before it failed to illuminate the ground even directly in front of our feet. Fortunately we had had the foresight to bring a spare set of batteries.

  The pole star was too low to be visible and the plough was lower in the sky than it would ever appear from Britain. This was a vivid indication to me of our relative closeness to the equator and there were stars ahead of us to the south which formed semi-familiar patterns, but which did not resolve themselves into constellations, due to their unfamiliarity. They were the southern constellations, of which hitherto, my only contact had been via a star atlas.

  By half past eleven, we finally reached a path-side map which clearly indicated that the footpath which led down to the left was the one which we wanted. It was here that the torch really was essential, for the path consisted of a meandering line of boulders almost like stepping stones leading downwards into impenetrable darkness. In the main, throughout the walk, we had kept up a regular flow of banter, but the degree of concentration and effort required to descend the path left a sort of panting silence between us.

  ‘Would you be frightened, if you were here by yourself,’ said T.

  ‘Not really,’ I said, without being sure if I spoke the truth or not. After a little inward probing, I finally settled on the fact that I would feel lonesome rather than frightened and hoped that my reply had not had too many macho overtones.

  When we finally reached the bottom of the path, we were confronted by a broad beach with a stream running along a pebble bed, diagonally across it. Just on the far side of the stream was a tent with what appeared to be a light fit for a lighthouse hanging from the front of it, illuminating half the beach and somehow, seemed threatening. I suppose that having walked for three hours around the deserted southern edge of Lantau island, with just the moon and the stars and T for company, I had become hypersensitive to any intrusion into our own little isolation bubble.

  Quite simply, I didn’t wish our presence on the beach to be advertised and I tried to communicate this to T without actually frightening her. However, in the end it seemed that the only place to cross the stream and gain access to the beach proper, was to pass the tent and this is what we had to do. We continued across the beach as far as we could, until we reached a small cliff with a series of large, smooth and fairly flat rocks, leading in steps upwards from the sea to the foot of the cliff. We settled on one of the upper steps and sat side by side, T gazing up at the stars and I staring down at the sea, just below us, as it rhythmically cascaded across the rocks and mentally assured myself that no amount of tidal movement could raise the sea level up to our high
perch. It seemed improbable and so I turned my attention elsewhere, in fact I joined T in looking skyward.

  ‘Can you still recognise any of the constellations that I showed you earlier,’ I asked. She pointed most of them out. I then asked her if she could still spot Vega.

  She raised her head and we both looked up at its bluish-white light. It was now significantly lower in the sky, but still shone brightly and I felt pleased that I had been able to reintroduce her to this star which had special significance for her.

  I stared out at the inky sea and considered my circumstances. I felt an absolute contentment as I leant over and stroked T’s hair and then pulled her to me and kissed her tenderly, first on the forehead and then on her face and neck. I don’t think either of us felt particularly amorous, it was just that there was no other place either of us would rather be and nobody else that we would rather be sharing it with.

  Great continental masses of cloud were starting to obliterate the stars and a light rain began to fall. I reached into the rucksack and brought out the two huge plastic bin liners that I had brought in anticipation. We crawled into a bag each and lay side by side smiling at each other. The rain soon stopped and we climbed back out of the bags and ate some of our rations; bread, cake and biscuits. We also had water and I had brought along two cans of Carlsberg lager. By now the beer was fairly warm but, under the circumstances, pleasant to drink. T had a little bit but, as usual, I drank most of it.

  For a while, we had been aware of, what appeared to be, a police boat circling out to sea. It was casting its searchlight onto the water and was obviously looking for someone or something. All of a sudden, we heard the chugging sound of a small engine very close to the beach. It was only just audible above the noise of the sea as it dashed against the rocks below us. We looked intensely towards the sound and only then did we observe the small boat. The only light on board was a hand held torch, which was not very bright and was being shone back and forth along the shoreline. The police launch was a long way out to sea and is unlikely to have seen it.

  We felt rather exposed and vulnerable perched on our rock, for if the boat were to beach it would be very close to our position and we could only speculate as to what manner of people were on board. We kept as low a profile as we could and I am sure that we both scarcely breathed, in anticipation. T whispered to me that she felt sure they were illegal immigrants. We held hands for mutual comfort and only relaxed when we heard the sound of the engine heading away from us at full throttle. Perhaps the large waves crashing to shore, had deterred them from landing so small a craft on the beach. Whatever the reason, we were thankful to hear the noise of the engine quickly fading. Once more it was just the two of us sitting amidst the rhythm of the waves.

  The Summer Palace

  We headed due north out of Hong Kong, as strait as an arrow towards Beijing. Little of China was visible through the extensive cloud cover, which seemed to be as endless as China itself. As we descended towards Beijing airport, we dipped below cloud level and the land below us seemed to be a cultivated wilderness. Large green fields containing the occasional abandoned-looking hut. It all looked cold, uninhabited and uninviting. Beijing airport was set amidst this rural isolation and indeed, at first sight, had something of the atmosphere of a second world war airfield, rather than an international airport.

  After landing we passed efficiently through customs and waited around for a coach to transport us into Beijing. The February air was chilly and damp after Hong Kong and we pulled our scarves tightly about our necks and prayed that the wait would not be a long one.

  The hotel was, at least, warm and after eating, we retired to our room which was fairly typical of any modern international hotel. There was an en-suite bathroom and a bedside phone and a thermos flask of hot water for making drinks.

  I looked out onto the wide street which lay three storeys below us and then turned to T and said, ‘I really hope it will snow tonight. I want to walk with you in the snow.’

  She smiled at me and replied, ‘If it snows, then you will have to look after me.’

  ‘Of course I will look after you. I like to look after you.’ I said.

  We were tired after travelling and soon climbed into bed. We held each other close, intertwining our limbs, like two vines and we slept.

  I awoke early and lay in bed gazing out of the partly open curtains at the roof of the building opposite. In the early morning gloom the roof appeared quite light. ‘Can that be snow?’ I whispered to myself. But, really, it didn’t seem quite light enough for snow. Perhaps it was a light frost, or just the play of moonlight on the tiled roof. T was also awake by now. ‘Look out of the window, I think that might be snow,’ I said.

  ‘I don’t think so,’ she said and so I finally leapt out of bed and strode across the room to the window.

  ‘It’s snowing.’ I shrieked like a child. ‘The road is covered in snow and the snow is still falling.’ I jumped back into bed and embraced T. It was still not six o’clock.

  Forty-five minutes later, we stood at the bus stop, outside the hotel, gazing into the half-light for signs of a bus. After a few minutes, a trolley bus approached us. Apart from its headlights, there was no other illumination, the the interior of the bus being completely unlit. The bus stopped in front of us and we climbed aboard. It was still quite early and I had expected the bus to be relatively empty, but as I stepped inside, I was astonished to find that the bus was packed with people standing, shoulder to shoulder, in almost complete darkness. The conductress sat behind a counter beside the door and above her was the only light on the bus. It gave out a feeble yellow light and it just enabled her to determine that the correct fare had been given. Having paid, we then shuffled through into the gloomy interior of the bus. The inside of the bus was just as cold as the freezing morning air outside, which confounded my, obviously naive, expectation that the inside of a bus should provide a degree or two of warmth.

  We disembarked at Tiananmen square. The square was snow-covered and breathtaking in its expanse. The hazy morning air softened its distant reaches and one was aware of almost nothing but an endless white snow carpet. It was still early and the square was all but deserted. The sun hung low in the sky, causing the snow crystals to sparkle like jewels, and the chill air quickly awakened the body and cleared the mind. We grasped each other’s hands and we ran like children through the snow.

  Later we took breakfast in a small restaurant. There was scant choice of food and we both took noodle soup with some kind of meatballs. The place was unheated and we sat there, fully wrapped in coats and scarves, relishing the warmth of the food.

  We decided to travel by bus to the Summer Palace which lies some distance outside Beijing. Once again the bus was unheated and T was so cold that I instructed her to place her hands inside the sleeves of my coat and grasp my wrists and we sat facing each other in this manner for most of the journey.

  As its name suggests, the Summer Palace is the traditional summer retreat of the Chinese Emperors. There is a large lake there, which serves to keep the air cooler and more moist than the hot dry air of the city. On arrival, we found the lake to be frozen and the trees on the surrounding hillsides were white with frost and snow. We walked, arm in arm, around part of the lake and watched teams of workers labouring to smash the ice around the lake’s perimeter. This turned out to be a daily ritual undertaken with the sole intention of preventing people from gaining access to the lake for the pleasurable pursuits of ice-skating and general sliding about. It was, actually, more like officially sanctioned vandalism. I watched in amazement, as it seemed to me that what they were actually doing, was creating a far more perilous environment through this activity. For whilst the ice further out in the lake appeared to be of substantial thickness, that around its edge was of an unknown quality.

  Already a number of people could be seen walking across the ice, regardless of personal hazard and the scene was so idyllic that I itched to join them. We found a section of ice
that had not been recently broken and, heart in mouth, skipped lightly over it. We marched straight across to the far side of the lake and gratefully resumed terra firma. I was almost in heaven. I could not have been more contented. We climbed a footpath, which lead us away from the lake and up onto one of the encircling hills. There we stopped and looked down through the trees and watched hundreds of people playing on the lake. I imagined the plight of anybody unfortunate enough to fall through the ice. Where was the nearest source of heat, I wondered? By the time a bus had trundled them all the way back to the city, their clothes would have frozen to their skin and they would be in the last throes of hyperthermia and frostbite. We later learnt that somebody did indeed fall through the ice on that beautiful frost-filled day and my heart goes out to the poor wretched soul.

  The Great Wall

  On the following day, we left the hotel even earlier and caught a similarly gloomy bus. But this time we disembarked at the railway station, for we planned to take a train to the Great Wall. My first sight of the station was memorable. The building was very station-like and architecturally, quite imposing. Along the front of the building at ground level were perhaps a dozen ticket offices each apparently selling tickets to a different destination. Outside each hatch was a queue of twenty or thirty people waiting patiently in the darkness and at that moment, I truly appreciated, the reason for having arrived so early.

  T walked backwards and forwards along the queues of people, looking for our train destination and I followed along behind her in a state of increasing bewilderment. After five or ten minutes she gave up and asked somebody and was informed that we needed to go inside the building. It appeared that a train was scheduled to leave for the Great Wall in less than ten minutes and there would not be another one that day. But, try as we might, we could not find anywhere to purchase a ticket. At last, we were directed to a door, behind which lurked an official who was able to sell us the required ticket, but the door was closed and the sign proclaimed that it would not open until seven o’clock, by which time our train would have departed. T banged on the door and shouted loudly to attract attention. A woman’s voice shrieked back, that we must return later. T shouted back that our train would depart in the next few minutes, but the woman behind the door, in the age-old spirit of petty officialdom, refused to open the door. T finally ended the conversation by yelling at her in English, to what purpose I know not, but it was obvious that we had lost the fight and we therefore, withdrew.