The Orphan Master's Son_ A Novel - Adam Johnson [151]
But one morning, by chance, he was near the front of the line. Traversing the round stones was dangerous for Mongnan. She needed an arm to steady her, and she had him up early, near the front of the line, none of which he minded until he came to understand that the man they were to stone would be awake and have an opinion. The rock was cold in his hand. He could hear the rocks ahead of them finding their homes. He steadied Mongnan as they neared the half-buried man, whose arms were up in a mime of self-defense. He was trying to speak, but something other than words was coming out, and the blood that ran from his wounds was still hot.
Nearing, he saw the bleeding man’s tattoos, and it took him a moment to realize they were in Cyrillic, and then he saw the face of the woman inked on his chest.
“Captain,” he called, dropping his rock, “Captain, it’s me.”
The Captain’s eyes rolled in recognition, but he could not make words. His hands still moved, as if he was trying to clear imaginary cobwebs. His fingernails had somehow torn during his escape attempt.
“Don’t,” Mongnan said as he let go her arm and crouched by the Captain, taking the sailor’s hand. “It’s me, Captain, from the Junma,” he said.
There were only two guards, young men with hard-set faces and ancient rifles. They began shouting, their words coming in sharp claps, but he wouldn’t let go of the old man’s hand.
“The Third Mate,” the Captain said. “My boy, I told you I’d protect all of you. I saved my crew again.”
It was unnerving how the Captain looked toward him, yet his eyes didn’t quite find him.
“You must get out, son,” the Captain said. “Whatever you do, get out.”
A warning shot was fired, and Mongnan scrambled to him, pleading with him to return to the line. “Don’t let your friend see you get shot,” she told him. “Don’t let that be the last thing he sees.”
With these words, she pulled him back in line. The guards were quite agitated, barking orders, and Mongnan was almost yelling above them. “Throw your stone,” she commanded. “You must throw it,” and as if offering her own incentive, she dealt the Captain a hard, glancing shot to the head. It loosed a tuft of hair into the wind. “Now!” she commanded, and he hefted his rock and dealt his blow hard to the Captain’s temple, and that was the last thing the Captain saw.
Later, behind the rain barrels, he broke down.
Mongnan brought him to the ground, held him.
“Why wasn’t it Gil?” he asked her. He was weeping uncontrollably. “The Second Mate I could understand. Even Officer So. Not the Captain. He followed every rule, why him? Why not me? I have nothing, nothing at all. Why should he go to prison twice?”
Mongnan pulled him to her. “Your Captain fought back,” she told him. “He resisted, he wouldn’t let them take his identity. He died free.”
He couldn’t get hold of his breathing, and she pulled him close, like a child. “There,” she said, rocking him. “There’s my little orphan, my poor little orphan.”
Meekly, through tears, he said, “I’m not an orphan.”
“Of course you are,” she said. “I’m Mongnan, I know an orphan, of course you are. Just let go, let it all out.”
“My mother was a singer,” he told her. “She was very beautiful.”
“What was the name of your orphanage?”
“Long Tomorrows.”
“Long Tomorrows,” she said. “Was the Captain a father to you? He was a father, wasn’t he?”
He just wept.
“My poor little orphan,” she said. “An orphan’s father is twice as important. Orphans are the only ones who get to choose their fathers, and they love them