King of the Cloud Forests. Michael Morpurgo

than the Japanese threat that finally persuaded my Father to send me away.

      It all happened so quickly and without any warning. It was in the middle of the night that Uncle Sung came to fetch me from the hospital and walked me across the moonlit compound into the chapel that was still waiting for its new roof. Father was pacing up and down, his hands clasped behind his back. He stopped when he saw me and sat me down beside him on a bench.

      He began to talk without even looking at me, hands clenched on his lap and leaning forward. ‘Ashley, I know your mother would want me to do this, I know she would. I am doing it for her and I’m doing it for you. This Mission is no place any more for a child. We must let Lin’s sacrifice be a lesson to us. You’ve heard what happened to the French Mission, the nuns?’ I nodded. ‘And even if the Japanese do not overrun all of China, as they well may, we have seen already what their planes can do. I cannot leave. My work is here, Ashley, with the Mission. God brought me here and God needs me here. I cannot desert these people. I have the chapel to complete and the hospital will be needed more than ever now. So I shall stay and perhaps I shall follow on later, if God wills it. But you will leave now, you and Uncle Sung.’ I tried to interrupt, but he turned on me, almost in anger. ‘Do not make this more difficult for me than it is already, Ashley. I have asked God’s guidance in this and I know it is right. Can’t you see that if I did what I wanted to do I would go tonight with you and Uncle Sung? It is a lesson to learn in life that we cannot always do what we want.’

      ‘Tonight?’ I said.

      He nodded. ‘You’re fit enough now if you keep your arm clean and the ribs have healed nicely enough. Uncle Sung has agreed to go with you, to take you to India. It’s taken weeks to persuade him to leave the Mission but he knows there’s no other way, and he knows it’s what your mother would have wanted. You’ll have to go, Ashley.’ And my father turned away. I knew from the tone of his voice that he would brook no argument, but I tried nonetheless. ‘Why can’t we just hide somewhere?’ I asked.

      My father’s voice was gentler now. ‘There is nowhere left to hide. China is in ferment. The Japanese have brought destruction into the very heart of China. Bands of brigands roam the countryside at will and terrorise the people. Missionaries have been stoned to death – yes, it’s true, Ashley. Warring factions fight each other everywhere for power. No one is safe in China today, least of all the missionaries or sons of missionaries. For many reasons, Ashley, which you are too young to understand, we are not much loved here.’ He put an arm around me. ‘It’s all arranged. For safety’s sake you will travel as Uncle Sung’s son – he has made Tibetan clothes for you. So until we meet again, Ashley, Uncle Sung will be your father. I could wish you no better guardian and guide. He will take you to the mountains in the far west, through Tibet and the Himalayas. It is Uncle Sung’s country, he knows it well. And perhaps in the spring of next year you can cross into Nepal and then down into India. As you know, your dear mother was from England and it is the English who rule in India. You will be safe there. I have written to the Mission Headquarters in Delhi. They will I’m sure provide you both with passage to England. And I have written to your grandmother in England telling her to expect you. She will look after you and I will join you as soon as I can.’

      ‘But when will that be, Father?’

      ‘When God wills it,’ my father said quietly and he stood up in front of me. ‘I shall help pack the horses now. You must be gone before dawn. I want no one to see you leave.’

      The last I saw of my father was a tall black figure standing in his cassock at the gates of the Mission, waving his stick in the air. He called out, ‘God bless’, and then he was gone, closing the gates behind him. I felt then that I would never see him again. Uncle Sung reached across to me and took my hand. ‘You’re not alone,’ he said.

      The moon skulked behind a cloud and we rode away together, my horse coughing in the cold night air.

      CHAPTER 3

      AN HOUR OR SO AFTER WE LEFT THE MISSION – IT was still not quite morning – Uncle Sung turned off the road into the trees and dismounted. He drew out of his saddlebag a pair of felt boots and a bulky quilted coat with deep pockets just like the one he always wore. ‘I made it myself,’ he said with some pride, holding it up against me. The coat was far too big for me and I told him so. ‘Time will take care of that,’ he said. ‘This will be a long, long journey. By the end of it you may well find these clothes too small, but then by the time we reach India you will have no need for them any more.’ He buttoned it up to my neck. ‘From now on I am not your Uncle Sung and you are not Ashley Anderson. You are Zong Ho, only son of Zong Sung. We are pilgrims on our way to Tibet, to Lhasa.’

      Holding my arms out, I could barely see my finger-tips emerging from the sleeves. Uncle Sung laughed, sat me down and set to work on my face. ‘And you must be dark, nut brown like I am, like all Tibetans are,’ he said.

      Within an hour my hair was blackened with Chinese ink, and a pigtail made of yak hair was plaited into my own hair. The makeup he used to darken my face was a mixture of crushed charcoal and cocoa, and bitter to lick. Uncle Sung worked fast, stepping back and turning my face into the light to consider it more carefully. Lastly, my hands were dusted with charcoal and a round, flat felt cap pushed down on my head. He lifted my chin, stood me up and turned me round. He was pleased with his work. ‘Zong Ho,’ he said. ‘You are now really my son. Two things you must not do. You must not wash, unless we are alone and it is safe; and you must not talk unless we are alone, and then only when I say you can. My son, Zong Ho, was born dumb. He has never uttered a word in his life, not a word.’

      Not to wash was, I thought, a wonderful notion, but not to talk – that was quite a different matter. I protested strongly. It was impossible I said. I was bound to blurt something out. He took me by the shoulders. Uncle Sung had not often been stern with me, but now he was in deadly earnest. ‘In China, you are a white man, a foreigner – that is bad enough in these times, but if they discover you are the son of a missionary there are men who would murder you without even thinking about it, men on this road, and me too if I’m caught with you. And in Tibet where I come from and where we are going there are men who believe all “phillings” are devils, and no one there minds killing devils.’

      ‘Phillings?’ I said.

      ‘Foreigners. Tibetans call them “phillings”. You must understand that all men of your race are not like your mother and father. Many of them come only to take what they can and leave. Such people are not welcome, not in China and not in Tibet.’ He made me walk away from him and turn round and walk back. ‘Now remember you must speak only when I say you can, when it is safe. You’ll do, Ho Zong,’ he said, ‘just as long as you don’t wash, you’ll do. We must go on now. I want to be a long way from here before dark.’

      We rode out of the trees together into the frail light of dawn. ‘Goodbye Ashley Anderson,’ I said, ‘I’m Zong Ho. Zong Ho. Zong Ho.’ I liked the sound of the name and said it again and again until Uncle Sung stopped me.

      ‘You may be Zong Ho,’ said Uncle Sung, ‘but you’re not the son of Zong Sung.’

      ‘Why not?’ I asked.

      ‘Because Zong Ho, the son of Zong Sung, is dumb,’ he said. ‘He has been since birth, remember?’

      I thought he would be smiling when I looked across at him, but he was not. As our eyes met I think I understood the seriousness of our situation for the first time. ‘You must never forget it, Ho. Never,’ he said.

      I was used to riding, but I had never travelled far on horseback before, only to the town and along the river banks with Lin. By that first evening, after a day in the saddle, I was sore and stiff. As I dismounted, my leg must have touched the horse’s rump for he started forward suddenly and I was thrown off.

      I fell on my side, my arm trapped underneath me. It was not a hard fall; but my chest pained me a bit as Uncle Sung helped me to my feet. My coat was torn. When he took it off to make sure I had not damaged myself I noticed that my arm was bleeding again. The old wound was open. Uncle Sung