They were his pride and joy, you see,
Anchored him like roots.
The right one he named Valor;
It always steered his course.
The left one he called Virtue;
’Twas steady as a horse.
I sing, willing my warmth to flow backward into my brother’s quiet limbs. I sing until the notes peter out, and my song passes through my lips like dry air through a flue. He doesn’t move. In my heart, I know he’s nearly gone. But I sing a song to keep him near.
Ba’s spirit had long flown away by the time I found him, but Jamie’s lingers. As tears blur my vision, I feel him hover, shielding me from the cold for as long as he can.
Long minutes pass, and hope rises and fades. Still, Jamie’s spirit flickers like a candle, as if to sear the memory of him into my waxen body. As if I could ever forget.
A book opens in some dusty corner of my mind, the best in Ba’s collection, a tender ode to lives barely lived. In the beginning, two babes take their first breaths together, their first shaky steps across a threadbare floor. As each page turns, the years pass, and their steps become steadier. Steady enough to cross railways, fences, and ropes as thin as clotheslines. Steady enough to walk through fire and ice—until a storm blows one away.
I thought you knew we’d always be together, even when we’re not.
But without you, Brother, I am a beat without a heart.
A lady calls my name, her voice like the soft lap of waves against a hull. She presses her warm lips to my forehead.
We call that a kiss from Tin Hau, the goddess of shipwrecks and sailors. It means good luck is on the way. Maybe for you.
The lady smiles down at me, her fair face glowing like a paper lantern.
Jamie, wake up!Tin Hau has come. Our rescue is at hand.
The dip and gurgle of oars reach my ears. But then the lady fades, and a lamp intrudes on my face.
“Help,” I whimper.
But my throat produces no sound.
“Please,” I try again.
But the sound is swallowed by the waves.
They are too far away to hear.
Something bobs in the water. The whirling drum has worked itself loose from my pocket, a bit of Drummer’s spirit thumbing his nose at the ocean.
I reach for the object, my hand sluggish. Twisting my wrist, I let the corded beads speak on my behalf.
Weakly at first:Tat-tat. Tat-tat.
Then more strongly:Ta-tat-ta-tat-ta-tat-ta-tat.
Heads turn our way. Voices start up.
“There are two of them,” says a man. “Look, one’s moving!”
“Leave ’em,” barks another. “They’re Japs.”
“Help us,” I rasp.
