They would realize his absence soon, he thought with rising panic, perhaps they already had, and all that was keeping them from finding him was the rain. He waded through the water to where the raft was tied to the tree, and dropped to his knees. The rope had already begun to rub the bark from the trunk, the raw pulp turned out where the fibers had torn it. He fumbled at the knot with his hands, but the raft had pulled it tight and his numb fingers couldn’t loosen it.
The raft tugged against its ropes, water gurgled up over the logs, it could capsize at any moment. The wail of the Erard seemed to say this, the shaking of the raft was throwing the hammers up against the strings, the notes crescendoing with the roar of the river. He then remembered the tool bag he had packed. He led himself along the rope toward the raft, and found the large chest. Struggling, he opened it, and reached his arm inside. His fingers touched the dry leather and he pulled it out.
Fumbling with the ties, he opened the bag and frantically tore through its contents until he found the penknife. The piano’s song was getting louder, all strings at once. He threw the bag into the water where it floated briefly in the eddy formed by the current against the raft, and he turned, back to the bank. The river caught him off-balance and he fell to his knees, catching himself on the rope. His glasses were knocked from his face, and he caught them in the water and shoved them back on his nose. He reached for the rope, opened the penknife, and began to saw, the twine of the rope peeling apart under the tension as each strand was cut, until he reached the final fibers and the rope broke on its own. The raft shook, the piano sang as the hammers were slung up with the energy of the release. The raft paused briefly in the current, turning, caught in willow branches, their leaves stroking the piano’s surface. And then a curtain of rain, and the piano was gone.
With difficulty, he pulled himself to the bank. He thrust the penknife into his pocket and began again to run. Through the underbrush, slapping branches from his face, hurtling through clearings drenched with walls of rain. In his mind he saw the piano floating, waves of rain pounding its case, the wind tugging the lid open, the two playing a duet on its keys. He saw foam and current pushing it downriver, past other villages. He saw children pointing, fishermen paddling out with their nets.
When lightning struck again, it illuminated a spectacled man running north through the forest, clothes torn, hair plastered to his forehead, while a black mahogany grand piano bobbed south in the current of the river, inlaid with mother-of-pearl, which caught the light. They spun out as if released from a locus, where a guard dog tore forward at its leash, and a reconnaissance team of soldiers frantically gathered their lanterns.
His feet pounded the trail, splashing mud against his body. The path cut through a dense grove of trees, and he followed, riding it into the dark, crashing through branches. He stumbled, fell spinning into the mud. He pulled himself up, pushed forward. Panting.
After an hour, he turned toward the river. He wanted to wait until he was closer to Mae Lwin to cross, but he was afraid that the dogs would catch his scent.
The river moved swiftly, swollen with rain. Through the darkness and the downpour he could not see the other side. He hesitated at the edge of the water, trying to discern the far bank. His glasses fogged with rain, blurring his vision even more. He removed them and thrust them into his pocket. For a moment he stood at the edge of the flowing river, seeing nothing but blackness, listening to the current. And then, far in the distance, he heard the bark of a dog. He closed his eyes and dove.
It was calm and quiet beneath the surface of the river, and he swam through the darkness, the current swift but smooth. For a few short seconds he felt safe, the cold water running over his body, his clothes fanning out with each stroke. And then his lungs began to burn. He pushed forward, fighting the need to rise, swimming until he could not endure the burning any longer and shot to the surface, exploding into the rain and wind. For a moment he rested, catching his breath, feeling the river carrying him away, and briefly he thought how peaceful it would be to just give up, and let the river carry him. But then lightning flashed again, and the whole river seemed to burn, and once again he was swimming fast wild strokes, and when he felt he couldn’t lift his arm again, his knee brushed against rocks and he opened his eyes to see the shore and a sandy bank. He pulled himself forward onto the bank, and collapsed in the sand.
The rain beat down on his body. He took deep rapid breaths, coughing, spitting up river water. Lightning struck again. He knew he could be seen. He struggled to his feet and began to run.
Through the forest, struggling over fallen logs, crashing arms first, blindly, through the lianas, he pushed forward, panic growing, for he had thought he would hit a trail which followed the left bank south from Mae Lwin, a route he had never traveled but which he had heard of from the Doctor. But nothing, only forest. He ran down a slope, dodging trees, to a small river, a tributary of the Salween. He tripped, and skidded down through the mud, falling instead of running, until the slope evened and he was back on his feet, and across the stream on a fallen tree trunk, up the other side of the bank, scampering, pulling himself up through falling clods of dirt, and at the top of the slope stumbling, falling, back up again running, and then suddenly his feet caught in the brambles of a thicket and he fell again, crashing into the brush. The rain beat down. When he tried to rise, he heard a growl.
He turned slowly, expecting to see the leggings of the British soldiers. But instead, inches from his face, stood a dog alone, a mangy animal, soaked, its mouth full of broken teeth. Edgar tried to move back, but his leg was caught in the bushes. The animal growled again and lurched forward, its teeth snapping. A hand shot out of the darkness, grabbing the animal by the skin of its neck, pulling it back, barking, angry. Edgar looked up.
There was a man, and he was naked except for a pair of Shan trousers, rolled up to reveal sinewy, muscled legs, streaming with water. He didn’t speak, and slowly Edgar reached down and untangled his foot from the brush and rose to his feet. For a brief second, the two men stood, staring at each other. To each other, we are phantoms, Edgar thought, and lightning flashed again, and the man materialized out of darkness, his body glistening, tattoos winding over his torso, fantastic shapes of jungle beasts, alive, moving, shifting with the rain. And then it was dark again, and Edgar was running through the brush, the forest getting thicker and thicker, until he burst into the open, a road. He wiped the mud from his eyes and turned north running, slowing, tired, running again. The rain came down in sheets, washing him.
In the east it began to get lighter. Dawn broke. The rain relented, and soon stopped. Exhausted, Edgar slowed, walked. The road was an old oxcart road, overgrown with weeds. Two narrow tracks ran in uneven parallel, slashes cut by the worn edges of cart wheels. He looked for people, but the land was still. Farther along, the trees dropped away from the side of the road, becoming scrub-brush, scattered grasses. It began to grow warm.
As he walked, he thought of little, but looked only for signs that could lead him to Mae Lwin. It became hot, and he felt beads of sweat mix with the drops of rain in his hair. He began to feel dizzy. He rolled up his sleeves and opened his shirt and in doing so, felt something in his pocket. It was a folded piece of paper, and for a moment he tried to remember what it could be, until he recalled his last moments on the shore with the Doctor, and the letter he had given him. He unfolded it as he walked, peeling the wet sheets open. He held it out before him, and stopped.