Restless Soul - Alex Archer [46]
“We need help for Zakkarat,” Annja said, hoping someone understood English. From the expression on the villagers’ faces, there was no comprehension. She gestured behind her to Luartaro, who was still propping up Zakkarat, and she repeated the statement in French, then Spanish. Still nothing. Zakkarat tried, too.
After a moment two men moved forward, one of them waving to the closest long building and taking Zakkarat’s other side and nudging him in that direction. If they hadn’t understood the words, they understood from Zakkarat’s appearance that he was hurt.
Inside, it was dry and cozy—and loud, with rain pelting the roof mixed with the chatter of villagers who had followed them. A few windows were opened to let in a little light, though most of the place remained in shadows. Annja did not see any lamps or candles to improve the situation. She slipped off her backpack and sat it inside the doorway and contemplated taking off her soggy boots to give her feet a chance to dry. She decided not to allow herself that luxury—at least not yet. She needed to look for the gunmen as soon as Zakkarat and Luartaro were settled.
She tried a few other languages, but nothing clicked with the villagers. Zakkarat tried again and finally nodded to one man with a sun-weathered face and a thick shock of inky hair. He said something in return.
“They are Thins, Annjacreed.” Zakkarat grimaced when Luartaro and one of the villagers helped him up onto a table at the back of the single large room.
It had the looks of a classroom, with rows of benches and narrow tables that could serve as desks, a table and chair at the front of the room and a bank of shelves stuffed to overflowing with books and papers.
She raised an eyebrow. “Thins?”
“Yes. That man, Rangsan, said they are Thins. There are maybe a half dozen main hill tribes in this region—the Karen, Lahu, Lisu, Hmong, Mien and Lawa. There are smaller tribes that came from them, such as the Thins, and each has its own language. Thins have lived in Thailand for a long, long time, maybe more than a thousand years, and some members of the main hill tribes have joined them.”
He grimaced when they stretched out his legs, and he leaned back on his elbows. “Thins have preserved their way of life, making little changes since they migrated here from China. There are said to be less than thirty thousand of them in this country. Most of their villages are in the Nan Province, but some are farther north near the mountains, like this one. The Thins build with bamboo, as you can see. Lots of bamboo.”
Annja had noted that nearly all of the buildings were either made of bamboo stalks tied together or woven into thatch panels. Even the floor of the building was bamboo.
“The Thins are—” Zakkarat frowned as one of the villagers examined his sore ankle “—practitioners of swidden agriculture, my father taught me. They farm glutinous rice. Some are Buddhists, but many are just considered animists.”
“Their language…” Annja started. She tried to keep her frustration in check; she enjoyed the local history lesson, but now was not the time for it. She needed to be on her way—to find the gunmen if possible, and to find the authorities. She watched as one of the villagers brought in a wooden bowl filled with water and gently cleaned Zakkarat’s ankle. Another villager stood by with a strip of cloth, ready to wrap it. “Their language, Zakkarat…what do they speak? It doesn’t sound quite like Thai. Can you make them understand—”
Zakkarat shrugged. “Thins, I guess. They speak Thins. Like I said, most of the tribes in Thailand have their own languages, Annjacreed. But this man here—” He nodded toward the one with the bowl. “Rangsan. He seems to understand me well enough.”
Annja’s words came fast now and breathy with urgency. “Tell Rangsan about the men with the guns who chased us down the mountain,” she said. “These people need to know about the guns.”
Zakkarat was not as quick with his speech, repeating a few of the words so that the villager could