After playing for two hours or more, Hector declared a halt and his intention to have one for the road. I congratulated him on his virtuoso recital, and although he evinced only a characteristic modesty, I had the distinct impression that my appreciation of his output pleased him no end.
My enthusiasm had touched him. That much was evident. There existed already between us that bond which unites the devotees of any idiom; and although I lacked Hector’s musical faculty, we shared an affinity for classic jazz and for what is considered to be classical music in general. As I was later to learn, Hector could recreate the compositions of Morton and Chopin with equal facility—his two favourite composers he maintained. He had that God-given gift of being able to reproduce, after one hearing only, any melody or set-piece note for note. Having perfect pitch, he played everything by ear. As to scored arrangements, he was unable to read a note.
“Thanks for being such good company and rescuing me from the flood.”
“Really it was nothing. I thank you. And I loved the way you played: simply marvellous.” We were standing at the foot of the steps, under the sign of the inn, and it was time to go our separate ways. But before our parting, another revelation was at hand.
“You’re keen on birds, aren’t you?” Hector announced and enquired. “I’m fairly keen myself,” he went on, “although I must admit I’m not as well versed in the local avifauna as you.”
That shook me, I can tell you. Not everyone talks in terms of avifauna. And while I may have mentioned birds en passant at the table, I had deliberately refrained from revealing my passion for the subject. It is very boorish to inflict one’s specialities on perfect strangers, unless previously apprised of their personal interest. Possibly Hector had overheard a part of my discussion with the Canucks. I hardly knew how to respond; so I let him continue.
“Tell you what,” he proposed unexpectedly: “why don’t we slope off for a bit of bird spotting in the next day or two, provided of course that you don’t have something better to do?”
I assured him that nothing would please me more, and that I was ready when he was. “I’m as free as a bird,” I said.
“Great! Well that’s settled. How about tomorrow?”
“Suits me fine.” So it was arranged that we should meet the following day at noon, on the selfsame premises.
“First we’ll have a bite and sup,” insisted Hector, “before setting off in search of the rara avis.”
And as he pronounced these final words, it occurred to me that I might have already found it.
Chapter III
The Burial Chamber
PUNCTUALLY, AT NOON, I presented myself at our rendezvous and found Hector ensconced in the bar. He was accompanied by a most prepossessing lady of imperious aspect, palish-complexioned, with superior cheek-bones and prominent beak, and a massy mane of red hair.
“My sister Hermione,” Hector rose and introduced us; “she arrived only this morning, directly from Gatwick: one of those cheap bucket-shop jobs. I wasn’t expecting her till tomorrow. Do you mind if she joins us?”
“Good God no!” said I, as Hermione flashed the most perfect set of white teeth. “I mean.....delighted to have you with us. I just hope you won’t find it too boring, that’s all.”
“Boring?” interrogated this red-polled enchantress; “what do you mean by boring? Hector tells me you’re a bit of a bird-fancier. Being something of a nature-lover myself, I find that quite fascinating.”
Not knowing what to say, I mumbled some superfluity like “terrific” or “fantastic,” and then, more to the point: “All right, let’s have a drink.” We adjourned to the bar.
Feeling much more relaxed, if more keenly aware of the captivating presence beside me, I believe I managed to hold my own in the ensuing conversation, but I must confess that I am never entirely at ease on first meeting an attractive woman, especially one so undeniably stunning as Hermione. Afflicted, as I am, by an innate shyness, born of a solitary upbringing, I am too readily susceptible and, at the same time, unprepared for proximity.
“Where are we going, and who will lead the way?” demanded Hector, when we had finished munching our sandwiches and sipping our beers. “Since you’re the bird man,” he continued without pause, clapping me on the back, “I suggest we get fell in behind you.”
“Oh I think we might all sally forth together,” said I, bounding down the steps and across the road.
So we proceeded gaily, up the famous steps to the water conduit, scene of the previous evening’s impromptu soaking—“a certain sense of déjà vu,” I remember Hector remarking—then into the terraced paddy-fields. Knowing the area fairly well as a result of my frequent bird-watching sorties, I had mapped out in my mind a rough plan of our itinerary; and I proposed to bring my friends to the great river valley, lying a short distance to the west. Not perhaps the most fruitful region from an ornithological view-point, nevertheless it promised some of the most beautiful tramping country and panoramic views to be found anywhere on earth.
In the fields, a knee-deep green carpet of burgeoning new growth, were herons and bitterns and Java Kingfishers, with resplendent purple and turquoise and chestnut plumes, crowned with scarlet stiletto bills. True to form, Hector continued to astonish me by pointing them all out, usually before I was even aware of them. He seemed to know the local birds as well as I. With an unerring eagle-eye and an almost uncanny competence, and without the aid of binoculars, he was able to distinguish at once the several species of snow-white herons or egrets, a host of which was assembled before us. Hermione also surprised me by spotting a crake, as it shot across the balk separating two rice terraces. Luckily I also saw it and was able to identify it, which, while it may not have impressed her unduly, as least served to elevate me above the level of rank tyro.
It was a calm day, clear but humid, lacking the customary breeze that rustled the palm fronds and sent ripples through the tussocks of rice retreating in ranks on either side. Presently we came to a curtain of greenery and passed through the village nestling in its shade. The inhabitants were not abroad and we spied no one, save one elderly lady striding energetically past us, an enormous bundle of kindling balanced on her head. In the meeting hall of the village ward some men lolled on the platform, chatting idly and ruffling the feathers of their fighting cocks. There was no other sign of activity, and all was strangely silent. Gone were the drone of flying insects and creak of cicadas in the boughs, and even the birds had ceased to sing. There was in the air vague portent of elemental upheaval; that prescient lull which goes before the storm. Some presentiment rang in my inner ear and caused me to stop and turn about. Hector and his sister were peering at the hedgerow a few paces behind, evidently engrossed by one of those skulking nonentities that are the enduring delight of your keen observer. Whatever it was, it was clearly their sole concern. Confounded thrumming: in whose thoughts was I concentrated ten thousand miles away?
Had I but known it then, I might have aborted my planned itinerary and chosen another path. But there was no turning back from the adventure that lay unavoidably in store, like a colossus straddling the dim horizon.
At length we came to the edge of the Great Divide and stood spellbound in an ocean of alang-alang, the coarse sharp-bladed grass that adorns the steep slopes of riverine valleys and, cut and dried, is used for thatching. Far below us the mighty torrent brawled and tumbled in an arc, its bed strewn with boulders the size of houses, before entering a gentler reach that resembled nothing so much as a bar of melted milk chocolate, bright reflexions patchily radiating from each remnant of silver wrapper.
So we descended to the water’s edge and the stretch beyond the rapids, where the flow was more sluggish. Spanning the narrows and suspended under the trunks of trees, which projected at right angles from the rocky shoulders formed at the intervening bend, was an awesome bamboo bridge. This was a miracle of construction,