He dreamed. He dreamed that he was riding a Shan pony, that they were galloping, that in the pony’s hair were twisted flowers that spun in the air like pinwheels as they moved through the paddy, past costumed ghosts, choreographed flashes of color against an infinite green. And he awoke. He awoke and saw the land was barren, and burnt rice stalks swayed in a slight breeze, and out of the earth grew mountains of karst, crag towers that hid golden statues of the Buddha, rising from the floors of caves like stalagmites, so old that even the earth had begun to dust them with deposits of carbonate. And he dreamed again, and as they passed, he could see into the caves, for they were lit by the lights of pilgrims, who turned to watch the strange foreigner, and behind them the Buddhas trembled, and brushed off their lime cloaks and hovered, also watching, for the trail was lonely, and few Englishmen ever passed this way. And he awoke, and before him on a pony’s back rode a young boy and a woman, strangers, she sleeping too, and her hair broke loose and streamed back to him, and flowers drifted out, and he dreamed he caught one and he awoke and they were crossing a bridge and it was dawn, and beneath them, a man and a boy paddled a dugout in the brown churning water, themselves the color of the boat and the current, and so it was only by the shifting shadows of the water that he could see them, and they were not alone, for no sooner had they passed beneath the bridge than came another boat, drifting, a man and a boy, and he looked up and a thousand bodies paddled for they were the stream and he dreamed, and it was still night, and from the crags and valleys came not men nor the blossoming of flowers, but something else, like light, a chanting, and those who chanted told him that the light was made of myths, and it lived in the caves with the white-clad hermits, and he awoke and they told him the myths, that the universe was created as a giant river, and in this river floated four islands, and humans lived on one, but the others were inhabited by other creatures who existed here only in tales and he dreamed that they stopped by a river to rest and the woman awoke and unwrapped her hair from where the wind had tied it about her body, and the boy and she and he knelt and drank from the river, and in it catfish churned, and he awoke and they were riding riding and it was morning.

They climbed the hills on the opposite side of the valley. The land became mountainous, and soon again it was night. Then Nok Lek said, “Tonight we rest. In the dark, we are safe.”

At their side there was a loud crash. Edgar Drake thought, Another pig, and turned to catch a pistol butt in his face.

And now only trajectory, falling. A crack of wood on bone and a spray of spit and then a bending, slipping, slowed by boots in metal stirrups, fingers still in reins, releasing, down, now the crash of the bushes, the body against the ground. Later he will wonder how long he is unconscious, he will try to recollect memories but cannot, for only movement seems to matter, not only his but others‘, the descent of the men from the trees, the glinting arch of cutlasses, the sweep of shotgun barrels, the bolting of ponies. So that when he stands again in the crushed branches, he sees a scene that could have composed itself in seconds or, if measured by heartbeats or breaths, much longer.

They are still on the pony. She holds the shotgun and the boy a sword, high above his head. They both face a band of four, three with knives drawn, flanking a tall man with his arm extended, a fist, a pistol. The weapons glint as the men crouch and dance, it is so dark that the glinting is the only clue that tells him they are moving. And for this moment, they are all still, they bob only slightly, perhaps this movement is just from the deep breaths of their exertion.

The blades float imperceptibly, winking like starlight, and then a snap, and with a flash of light they move again, it is dark, but somehow he can see the tall man’s finger tense, and she must see it too, for she fires the shotgun first, and the tall man shouts and grabs his hand, the pistol is thrown across the forest floor, the others spring on the pony, grab the shotgun barrel before she can discharge the other chamber, pull her, and she doesn’t scream, all he hears is a small cry of surprise as she hits the ground, one man whips the shotgun from her hands and points it toward the boy, now the other two are on top of her, one grabs her wrists, the other tears at her hta main, she cries out now, he sees a flash of her thigh pale in the thin light, he sees that the flower has fallen from her hair, he sees its petals and sepals and stamens still dusted with pollen, later he will wonder if this was but his imagination, it is too dark. But he doesn’t think now, he is moving, he springs out of the brambles, toward the flower, and the fallen pistol which lies beside it.

It is not until he raises his hand, shaking, saying let her go let her go let her go, that he thinks he has never fired a gun.

Freeze, and now it is his finger that flickers.

He awoke to the coolness of a wet cloth against his face. He opened his eyes. He was still lying on the ground, but his head was resting on Khin Myo’s lap. She gently cleaned his face with the cloth. Out of the corner of his eye, he could see Nok Lek standing in the clearing, rifle at his side.

“What happened?” he asked.

“You saved us.” She said it in a whisper.

“I don’t remember, I passed out, I didn’t…did I shoot…them…” The words came out jumbled, incredulous.

“You missed.”

“I—”

“You almost hit the pony. It bolted. But it was enough.”

Edgar looked up at her. Somehow, in the midst of everything, she had thought to fasten the flower in her hair once again.

“Enough?”

She looked up at Nok Lek, who watched the forest nervously. “I told you, one of Anthony Carroll’s best men.”

“Where did they go?”

“They fled. Dacoits are fierce but can be cowards when confronted. But we must go. They may return with others, especially now they have seen an English face. It is much more lucrative than robbing poor farmers.”

Dacoits. Edgar thought of the men on the steamship from Rangoon. He felt her run the cloth over his forehead. “Have I been shot?”

“No, I think perhaps you fell after you fired because you were still hurt from your fall from the horse. How do you say, you fainted?” She tried to appear concerned, but couldn’t suppress a smile. Her fingers rested on his forehead.

Nok Lek spoke in Burmese. Khin Myo folded the cloth. “Mr. Drake, we should go. They may come back with others. Your pony came back. Can you ride?”

“I think so.” He struggled to his feet, the warmth of her thigh still on the back of his neck. He took several steps. He found himself shaking but he didn’t know if it was from fear or his fall. He climbed back on the pony. Ahead of him, Khin Myo sat with a rifle across her lap. She seemed strangely comfortable with it, the gleam of its barrel resting against the silk of her hta main. Nok Lek pulled another from his saddle, handed it to Edgar, and tucked the pistol into his belt.

Hiss. The ponies moved into the darkness.

They rode through an interminable night, moving slowly down a steep slope and then across empty rice fields. At last, when Edgar was certain it would never arrive, the sun’s light spread out over the hill in front of him. They stopped to sleep at the house of a farmer, and when Edgar awoke, it was afternoon. Beside him, Khin Myo slept peacefully. Her hair had fallen over her cheek. He watched it move with her breath.

He touched the wound on his forehead. In daylight, the ambush seemed but a bad dream, and he rose quietly, so as not to wake Khin Myo. Outside, he joined Nok Lek, who sat drinking green tea with the farmer. The tea was bitter and hot, and Edgar felt beads of sweat form on his face, cool in the light breeze. Soon there was stirring inside the hut, and Khin Myo came out and walked to the back of the house to wash. She returned with her hair wet and combed, and her face freshly painted.