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Clarissa Worthington Howe, who winks and gives me a little finger wave and says, "Ah do believe we are even now, Jacky, you dear little thang: Jaimy for Randall,
Randall for Jaimy, fair trade, I say..." And I scream, "No, no, no! Not Clarissa! No, no, not that! Anybody but Clarissa! No, no, noooooooo...
"
    "Memsahib having bad dream?"
    I pop open an eye and Clarissa and Jaimy and the crowd at Saint Paul's fade away into the mists of my mind as I see Ravi standing beside me, his toes hooked on a branch, looking concerned.
    "I have had better dreams, boy," I say, shaking the nightmare out of my head and sitting up all groggy. "What's going on in that town? What did you learn?"
    "We are in Burma, Missy. Bottom part. Big cities up north but many rivers for us to cross to get there. They do not know names. They are very simple people. One city that they do know is called Rangoon."
    "Um. You could speak to them? And they understood you?"
    "Mostly yes, Memsahib. Urdu works in many places."
    When we were back in Bombay, Higgins had done some research, as he always does when I'm off being an irresponsible gadabout, and he informed me later that Urdu was actually a combination of Hindi and other local dialects, including some English, cobbled together by the many traders who plied the Bay of Bengal, which is what that water out there is. And so Urdu was in use in several countries that bordered the Bay, this Burma apparently being one of them, which is all that counts now.
    "Who talked to you?"
    "Beggar children. They were much amazed by me and most friendly."
    Ah, the universal tribe of Urchindom, of which I am proud to be a charter member in good standing.
    "What else?" I ask, stretching and looking out through the leafy branches of my tree. I see that the fishing fleet is returning to shore.
Hmmm
...Nice looking boats, all brightly painted with neatly trimmed triangular sails. If they were on the north coast of Africa, they would be called dhows. What they are called here, I do not know, but that is not important. All that is important is that they are seaworthy, and they look to be that.
    "Village is all fisher folk," he goes on. "And there is much unhappiness."
    "Why's that?"
    The men of the boats have pulled their nets out and are drying them on racks set up by the shore. One man—a very large man with a huge black mustache—is yelling at them as they do it. Another man is gathering up the catches from all the boats and placing them at the feet of the yelling man. The backs of the other fishermen are bowed, and I am close enough to see that their faces are resigned and without expression.
    "Much sadness. Three peoples of village killed by tigers in past few days. One child..."
    I look over at the woods and know I ain't goin' there no more. So sad for those poor people ... I know their end must have been terrible.
    I see that the men have not pulled their boats far up on the beach.
Hmmm...
The tide must be going out, and they do not want to strand their boats too high up on the shore. The boats, though small, would still be a hard push to get them back into the surf when next they have to go out.
    "And trouble of other kind, too," he says, following my gaze to the crowd of fishermen on the shore. "A
badmash
has come to the town. Big strong man. The old headman died and this one took his place. He beats upon the fishermen and takes half of each man's daily catch. Takes their young sons ... and daughters, too ... Much shame in village."
    "Hmmm ... That would be him, then, the
badmash
?" I ask, pointing out through the leaves at the big man. I don't have to ask what the word means.
    "Yes, Missy, I think so."
    "Does no one in the village stand up to him?"
    "No, Missy. He is too big, and he has mighty weapons—great curving swords. He arms his followers with them and the people are afraid."
    "Hmmm ..."
    "There is one, though—a young man who was to wed a girl, a beautiful girl, and he was most happy. But the badmash find out and say