The Red Thread by Dawn Farnham Read Free Book Online

big craft and small had drawn up on the sand, unloading their catch. Buyers for the fresh fish came and went in a steady stream. Dark-skinned men were sorting and mending fishing nets. Other lighters disgorged coolies. Agile, wiry men jumped out of small, sleek, almond-eyed craft and made them secure, quickly offloading their cargoes in straw bundles or rattan baskets. Clacking, thumping, voices calling, ducks quacking, dogs barking: the din of commerce.
    The middle of the bay was dominated by the temple, close to which the coolies had been gathered. Qian could read the black and gold plaque that hung over its entrance: ‘Thian Hock Keng’ (the Temple of Heavenly Happiness). He could see it was newly built, the green of its gleaming roof tiles glinting in the lowering sun, and his heart rose. The heavy perfume of incense wafted over the walls and mingled with the fish, vegetable, fruit and cooking smells and the heat of the dusty street.
    â€˜Zhen Ah,’ he said, turning to his companion. ‘A temple for our people here; it is a good sign, don’t you think?’
    â€˜It’s a sign that there’s money in the place, anyway. It looks like it was built by the fat cats. Always sucking up to the gods. We shall have to see how we can get our hands on some of it and become fat cats ourselves, eh? It’s lively, all right. Have you ever seen men like them?’
    They stared at a gathering of merchants. Blue, silk-gowned Chinese, white turbans on thick, black beards, long moustaches and high hats on red hair, a green-and-brown skirt on a short, fat-framed man. Red-coated, dark-skinned soldiers and ships’ officers in blue and white strolled by. Ruddy-skinned, orange-haired sailors mingled with darkly bearded shopkeepers and long-queued Chinese. Around them a din and clamour of incomprehensible language mixed with general calls of hawkers and tradesmen. They laughed, amazed; there was too much to take in.
    A doe-eyed bullock harnessed to a heavy water cart pulled up dustily, and the bullock keeper began filling up tubs which the coolie overseer passed around the thirsty men. All the men stared at the handler, for they had never seen an Indian man before. He was a lean, dark Tamil, his skin as black as ebony and he was wearing a small, jaunty turban of brilliant orange and loose trousers of a similar hue. He flashed a smile of red-stained teeth at the gaping crowd and spat a squirt of red juice on the ground. His bullock dropped a steaming deposit. The bullock keeper pocketed the coins the overseer passed him, and with a ‘yup yup’ moved the cart and his muscled companion on down the beach, squishing the hot pats into the ground. The pungent smell of cow dung assailed their nostrils.
    A pale-skinned man dressed in black approached the group, leading a small pony. From the box attached to the animal’s back, he took out a slim book. Holding it up, he began to address the group of coolies, who eyed him with alarm. He took off his wide-brimmed hat to mop his brow, showing his yellowing teeth in a grim smile, then began distributing books to the men. The overseer gazed impassively and said nothing. Zhen and Qian looked at one of the books. It was written in Chinese, but as far as they knew, they and only one other were literate. On the cover page were the crossed lines of the number ten, but strangely wrought, the downward stroke being longer than the horizontal. When the man had left, the overseer simply said,
    â€˜I dunno what this book is for, but every time a ship comes, they give them out. The paper comes in handy for wiping your arse.’
    He began mustering them into groups, and a big, shaven-headed man with a pocked face ordered them to move off. They walked away from the harbour, along a dusty street of closely packed houses, goods spilling out onto the pavement. Awnings projected out into the street, closing the sky above. Red, black and gold shop signs hung from every