Shadowboxer (11 page)

‘What are you doing?’ Luck shrilled. ‘Are you crazy?’

Mya picked up the phone. Leaving his shadow lying upon the fallen man, Kala Sriha rose and surged toward Mya. The immortal brought heat and a musky odor that made fear spark across the surface of her skin. The lion’s breath on her face smelled like Mr. Richard’s workshop when he was brewing drugs. Mya was shaking, but she would not let herself flinch away from the smell. Kala Sriha’s upper lip curled back and she saw the end of a tooth as long as her forearm.

Luck remarked, ‘He probably won’t find you appetizing. But the sound of his roar can kill animals.’

Up close, Kala Sriha was enormous. She fixed her gaze on what was right in front of her: the shiny dark hairs that grew sideways across the lion’s muzzle. Would they feel like silk if she touched them?

‘I pray that you won’t take this man,’ she said to a black nostril. ‘I brought him here. I will bring him back. He must not die.’

‘Why not?’ Luck said. ‘He wouldn’t be the first.’

Mya ignored the ghost. Kala Sriha sat back on its haunches, shifting position in a way that allowed her to see beyond the lion to the fallen man. A rumbling sound moved out of the lion and into Mya until her lips throbbed and the bottoms of her feet hummed. The phone felt hot.

Kala Sriha came into her mind and body in a way that shook her bones like the wind shakes a tree. The immortal mind was vast yet also familiar. Despite the creature’s masculine mane, Kala Sriha’s presence felt female. The immortal probed Mya’s being. Mya’s insides stretched under scrutiny, so that holes appeared in the cloth of who she was.

It is rare to meet a mortal who can come here. You are very old for one who lives on the earth.

Those weren’t the words—there were no actual words, only residues of the immortal’s passage through her, a suggestion of communication. She had the sense of becoming a thin, stringy net of ideas with big empty spaces in between, into which Kala Sriha inserted itself, contemplating what there was of Mya. Like blood through veins, the lion shot through all of her thoughts, until it came upon the question she had been harboring:
whose was the voice on the phone?

There was a sense of laughter; not mocking, but truly happy.

You will find out one day, little star. Why do you protect this mortal?

It’s my fault he’s here,
Mya answered
. Mr. Richard tried to kill him with the night orchid, but he would not leave the world. It was me who brought him here. His life is lost because of me.

There was a pause while the immortal’s mind enveloped Mya’s, holding her soul like it was a baby.

The being belongs to me now. His acts are also my acts. I move in the world in many forms, and he is a part of me, now.

And again Mya felt the vastness of possibility yawn around her until her consciousness became a frail tightrope. The darkness of the lion was an immanence and an emptiness both. When it retreated she found herself looking through Luck, who faded in and out of sight against the seething green background of foliage.

Kala Sriha stood over the man once more. The man stirred and pushed himself from the ground. Around and above him crowded an afterimage of the black lion’s form, like an overcoat. He moved toward Mya. His body seemed to get stronger with every step, and she wondered what the lion had done to him. He trailed a cloak of smoky darkness as he walked away from the lion, and little by little his form filled out so that he was more flesh and less bone. He came to a halt in front of Mya, his chest heaving with the exertion of walking. ‘Thank you,’ he said, and made a deep
wai
to her. ‘I’m Shea.’

She shook her head. ‘Not me. Please thank Kala Sriha.’

Shea looked confused.

‘Kala Sriha... that’s just a legend.’

Behind him, Kala Sriha’s tail began to lash at his disrespect. Kala Sriha was becoming larger and diffuse, a black lion cloud. As its annoyance built the immortal emitted a smell like burning hair. Mya’s chest tightened. She pressed her hands together at her breastbone and
wai
’d to Kala Sriha.

Thank you, thank you, thank you. Please excuse this mortal’s ignorance. Thank you for his life.

A destiny lies on you both,
Kala Sriha said.
But he is weak
,
starving
.
His strength of will alone sustains him, but it also stops him from accepting me. He will tear himself into pieces this way.

Shea was sizing Mya up with quick, desperate eyes. He shuddered, his skin crawling away from the darkness that surrounded him; but it clung to him like fingers.

‘I can’t die here,’ he said. ‘There’s something I have to do. Help me.’

He is closed-minded. He denies me.

Mya took out the phone and pressed it into Shea’s hands.

‘But—where did you get this?’

‘Mr. Richard took it from you.’

‘He drugged me. I keep seeing things. A black lion and lots of other hocus pocus.’

Kala Sriha rumbled with displeasure.

‘Please don’t say that!’ Mya whispered.

I have shown patience with you both. Enough. There is a form waiting for him in Bangkok. He will be one of my animal servants.

Stricken, Mya said nothing. Animal servant? Was Shea to reincarnate?

‘I would give anything to be an animal servant,’ Luck whined.

‘I have to go to Bangkok,’ Shea said out of the blue, so that she was unsure whether the desire was his own or Kala Sriha’s. He added, ‘I have contacts in the police there. Come with me, Mya!’

He cannot go as a human.

Bangkok. Bangkok. Had she ever delivered anything to Bangkok? There was the time she had delivered cash to Mr. Richard’s wife, slipping through the forest into the roof garden of the luxury high rise over the river...

‘Please, take my hand,’ Mya said. Shea’s fingers were cool and he was shaking, teeth chattering. He staggered, bumping into her. She felt her way through the branches, seeking Mrs. Fuller’s roof garden with its potted trees and its little fish pond...

In the air around them there was a change of pressure and light, like the rollover of clouds that comes with a rising storm. Kala Sriha.

He must accept me. But he does not.

‘Kala Sriha, take me!’ cried Luck. ‘I may be only a ghost but you could put me in any animal body you like. I’d even be a turtle.’

The hot smell of Bangkok blew into the forest. Mya could see through the base of the palm tree in Mrs. Fuller’s garden. She gave Shea a little push to guide him through, but Shea’s legs gave way. He crumpled to the tile floor.

‘Come on, Shea,’ Mya hissed, bending beside him. ‘Quickly, before Kala Sriha claims you!’

I know his fate. I can see around the corners of time. Did you think you could escape me?

On the other side of the carp pond sat an unusual-looking black cat with golden eyes.

‘Is that Mrs. Fuller’s cat?’ Mya heard herself gabble. Wishful thinking. Of course Mrs. Fuller did not have a cat; all that fur would not agree with her haute couture décor. The cat stretched and then gathered itself. It sprang across the fish pool in a graceful arc, landing on Shea’s back. There it lay down with a possessive air.

He is mine.

Kala Sriha was inside Mya’s mind like blood in her brain.Yet she pleaded.

‘Beloved Kala Sriha, he is still a living human.’

The young man has the beginnings of a powerful voice. That is why I came to him. But there is a price to be paid.

Beneath the black cat, a stain of darkness began to spread across Shea’s prone body. When it had crept over his entire body, the blackness drew inward toward the cat, until there was nothing left of Shea but an animal crouched upon the blue tile above the noise and fume of Bangkok.

Mya’s heart pounded with a kind of dread. What about the phone? The phone that had called her, Mya, and spoken to her in her own language, with a voice so like her mother’s—what would become of it now?

The cat turned its golden gaze on Mya. She ought to be afraid; but strangely she found that she was angry. She had come so close to saving Shea.

‘He won’t accept you,’ she said to Kala Sriha

She was right. The cat began to twitch and shiver, as though something were biting it. Its fur stood on end as it startled and skittered sideways across the balcony. Snarling, it ran up the side of the banana tree and from there made a spectacular leap toward the roof. Mya gasped as the cat hung mid-air for a moment before it managed to catch hold of the gutter and scrabble its way up. Then it disappeared from view.

‘What is going on out there?’ The door to the penthouse apartment opened and Mrs. Fuller put her head out, wincing as heat slapped her in the face. She was speaking English. ‘Michael, is that you?’

Mya was so startled that for a moment she couldn’t think. She had escaped Mr. Richard only to be stupid enough to return to his wife’s apartment! Her insides seized up as she waited for Mrs. Fuller to turn toward the banana tree and notice her, but at that moment a man’s voice answered from inside and Mrs. Fuller glanced fractionally in the other direction. Mya focused on stillness, so that she could slide into the tree and return to her forest.

As she slipped away the last thing she heard was, ‘I heard a rat or something on the roof. Michael, can you call maintenance?’

Bangkok was gone. Mya let out her breath in the safety of the forest.

But the forest was not safe anymore. The hot breath of Kala Sriha was on her neck.

You have meddled. You have disrespected. You forget what I am.

Mya turned, and the lion’s golden gaze seared her face. The trees shivered in a powerful sound wave, low and droning. The beginning of the killing roar?

Mya clapped her hands over her ears and bolted blindly into the underbrush. She had to get away from the sound. She had crossed this forest to visit so many rooms in so many countries—any living plant anywhere was all she needed to make a connection—but to do this required composure. She had none. The sound was attacking her mind, and she reeled sideways.

With a painful jolt she collided with the half-fallen fir tree. Here was the shelter that Shea had made, close to the opening to
Combat Sports Emporium.
Here was the way out!

The lion’s roar broke around her as she fell through the yellowing leaves of a neglected ficus plant and into a cluttered office in New Jersey.

Channelling Rocky Marciano

L
UMPINEE
S
TADIUM HAD
a big reputation, but it didn’t look like no Madison Square Garden. It was scruffy and low-key. The atmosphere was something else. Even when the crowd wasn’t cheering or roaring, you could feel their background presence. I had the spooky sense that decades—maybe centuries—of fighting spirit had sunk into the walls, the floor, the canvas, the silk banners. I was part of history, now. The orchestra were playing their traditional melodies and sidewinding rhythms, just getting warmed up for the real action, and money was changing hands over me and Jorgensen. She was the odds-on favorite, obviously. But I wasn’t thinking about that.

I was thinking about how I was going to beat her without getting disqualified. When I did my not-very-impressive
wai kru
I put my whole heart in it, praying I could do Pook and Coat proud.

Beatta Jorgensen’s eyes were cold blue. She came out of her corner twitchy and predatory. I don’t know what they were feeding her, but she looked even bigger up close.

When we first kicked off I fought her on the outside of her range. The strategy was to cut angles on her, to avoid her shots and land my own. What actually happened was that Jorgensen kept me away with her longer arms, and then when I was lining up for a round kick, she teeped me right in the chest, knocking me back across the ring. Her timing was better than mine. But she didn’t move in to capitalize. She was just letting me know she could get me.

I struggled to adjust my strategy. As we moved around each other, each of us twitching and feinting, I could tell that she was just sizing me up. Letting me try out my moves so she could get my measure and figure out how to do me. Soon she’d be coming for real, and then I’d have trouble.

The key in a Muay Thai fight, Coat had told me over and over, is to strike more and strike harder. Unlike in MMA, there is no ground game. There’s no punishment for being thrown or tripped, except the loss of a point—and in Muay Thai, you don’t usually win by points. The idea is to knock your opponent out. That’s what this audience was betting to see.

I had to get to her before she got to me. Jorgensen started to work her low round kick against my thigh. I ignored the battering and charged in straight, punching all the way. Caught her with some body shots and I knew I had to be hurting her, but she hooked me up and clinched me almost immediately. Slick with sweat, we wrestled for positional control; I tried to knee her in the ribs to make myself some space, and she wrenched my shoulder girdle over and threw me.

The ref separated us and re-started the fight—in MMA Jorgensen would have gone down with me and we would have gone into the ground fighting phase, but now we were back on our feet, moving around each other. And I was mad.

I went after her with my kicks. She couldn’t shoot for a takedown, so I was free to assault her lead leg. I am blessed with a pain-seeking sense that lets me keep finding the same spot, so I knew it would be hurting her more and more each time. With every kick I imagined her femur cracking. Her leg didn’t actually break, but I could see the shock of the blow register on her face, even though she tried to hide it.

Halfway through the first round, I was getting good and hot. But I still had the New Jade noise in my head. I wasn’t going to break a rule. I didn’t come to Lumpinee to get disqualified.

The music was speeding up, reflecting the increased pace in the ring. I was sucking air in through the holes in my gum shield, biting down with my jaw on every blow. Pook and Coat were shouting at me from my corner. ‘No kick, go straight, go straight!’