The Trunk Rider

Chapter 4

“Kanya!”

            I had been sound asleep – how, I didn’t know, for it had seemed an eternity of tossing and turning last night –, but my eyes snapped open in an instant.  This was it then.  Departure day. It was still very early; late summer, and the sun was still nowhere to be seen.  My eyes swept the room, taking in every inch.  It was completely empty, other than the duffel bag that held everything I owned, my backpack, which held everything I could want on a twenty-four hour trip, and the one change of clothes I would wear.

I pulled myself out of bed and got dressed silently.  The gloom of the past few weeks and the rage of yesterday had all vanished, replaced by a grim, burning determination.  It seemed that Niran’s parting words had stuck with me; I suppose that having been punctuated by my first kiss helped.  I fingered Niran’s bracelet on my wrist, and mentally resolved to wear it at least to Calgary.

Once dressed and holding both bags, I gave the room one last look, turning slowly in the doorframe, and turned away, closing the door behind me for the last time.

“What’s for breakfast?”  I asked nonchalantly, walking into the kitchen as if it were a perfectly ordinary morning.

Dad didn’t bother to maintain the illusion.  “Nothing.  We need to catch the early bus into Chiang Mai, then we’ll pick something up at the airport.”

I nodded and was about to ask when the bus arrived, when something caught my eye.  We didn’t have many ornaments in the house to begin with, so it was odd that the small porcelain elephant that had graced the top of the cabinet by the sink as long as I could remember still stood there, neither sold nor packed.

“Dad,” I inquired, gesturing, “Why is that still there?”

“Where?  Oh, hey.  Didn’t notice that there.”  The words had a shaky, rehearsed quality, as if he was hoping he hadn’t needed to use them.  I had used the same tone last night while breaking the news to Niran about my departure; it turned out I had been subconsciously rehearsing them for weeks.

Dad emerged from a few moments of nervous thoughtfulness.  “I don’t think it’ll fit in my bag… why don’t you put it in yours?”

In ordinary circumstances I wouldn’t have bothered to carry it, but it was the way he had reacted that made me take it carefully from the shelf, unzip my bag, and place the elephant gently inside.  I could understand how some nameless, frightful pursuer would cause this nervousness, but a simple ornament?  Were they, could they be connected somehow?   IT seemed ridiculous, but I wanted to get to the bottom of it, and if this was a clue, so be it.

Right then, Mum burst in the front door with an announcement.

“Bus’ll be here soon,” she said simply, “Time to go.”

I felt an odd emptiness as I picked up the duffel and proceeded out the door and down the steps. It was as if my mind had come to reflect the emptiness of the building which I now walked away from, determinedly not looking back.

We took an overgrown path down the hill and into town in silence, the usually bustling streets quiet in the early darkness.  We cut through the main town to where the highway skirted Chiang Ban, the same highway that curved around the town the pass by the farm.  Really, Chiang Ban would just be an annoying detour for someone travelling the highway.

The bus pulled up some time later, glaring headlights blinding after the darkness, rumbling like some awoken creature.

We loaded our bags into a compartment that flipped open at the base of the bus’s flank, and boarded.  I had been inside a bus like this a few times before, on holiday trips to Chiang Mai, but it was still an odd experience.  Rows of four cushioned seats, divided centrally by the thinly carpeted aisle, stretched far back into the somewhat claustrophobic space.  I supposed that Ratana, Sukhong and the others were, at that moment, in much the same space, shipping into Lampang.