The Silk Road Saga: Part I - Silkworm

4 - Motorbike Thief

Yue slipped and tumbled down the steep slope, crashing through a lattice of branches. His downward trajectory was brought to an abrupt halt when the end of his easel became stuck in a Y shaped branch. He tugged with all his might, desperately trying to set it free. Higher up the slope the locals let out excited whoops, a sort of Uzbek war cry that chilled his blood.

Last month Guoliang, one of the apprentice engineers, had gone missing. At first they thought he had run away homesick, so many of the younger men often did. But a week later the police had found a body dumped in a ravine not far from the railway camp. The stab wounds and burn marks on his body indicated that Guoliang had been killed before the fall broke his neck. After that incident the Chinese had been warned not to stray from the railway camp, especially after dark.

Yue freed his easel and continued to stumble towards the valley floor. He was breathing heavily and a thick film of sweet sheened his forehead. He knees felt weak with fear and exhaustion. He wasn't used to running. The whoops grew closer, calling to each other like wolves on the hunt. Through a break in the trees Yue spotted the valley floor. He spurred himself onwards, half jumping half falling the final few metres towards flatter ground.

He landed awkwardly and a sudden pain flared inside his ankle. Leaning on his easel for support, he limped towards the spot where he'd left his father's motorbike. A perfect full moon bathed the valley in a porcelain light, draining the long grass of colour. Yue hobbled through the soft monochrome landscape, breathing hard, trying to ignore the shooting pain in his ankle and the crusted layer of sap, sweat and blood on his face.

Eventually he spotted the boulder that he'd hidden the motorbike behind. He staggered towards it as fast as he could manage, leaning on his easel and hopping to cover more ground. The cushioned thud of feet landing on grass told him that his pursuers had found their way out of the forest. A bottle arched over his head and fell harmlessly into the long grass. He glanced over his shoulder and got his first proper look at the group pursuing him. They were dressed in jeans and long plain shirts. A few of them wore quilted hats, reminding him of something out of a history book. They passed around a bottle of what Yue took to be vodka and punched each other on the shoulder as they sauntered towards him, certain that their prey had nowhere to run.

Yue reached the boulder and leaned against it for support. The hard surface gave off residual warmth from the day. He dragged himself around the circumference of the boulder, feeling his ankle begin to swell and press against the cuff of his trousers. Harsh Uzbek syllables drifted on the breeze. Another bottle arched through the air. This one shattered on top of the boulder, sending splinters of glass flying past Yue's face.

His elation on reaching the other side of the boulder was short lived. The motorbike that had meant to save him was lying face down in the grass, its tyres slashed. The Uzbeks had found it first. In all likelihood the motorbike, adorned in bright red Chinese characters, had put the Uzbeks on his scent. It seemed like his father would be the death of him after all. Yue was on the verge of giving up when he spotted something glinting in the moonlight. It was a handlebar lying in the grass, almost hidden from view. The locals also had motorbikes. With a bit of luck, they'd left their keys in the engine.

Yue shuffled towards the nearest bike, letting out a low whimper each time he put pressure on his ankle. He reached the bike, a bastard hybrid of different parts held together by masking tape and prayers, and hauled it upright. Upon hearing the keys jangle invitingly in the ignition, Yue thanked whatever ancestors were watching over him. As he mounted the bike, his pursuers rounded the boulder. Their faces froze, then they started sprinting. Yue turned the keys in the ignition and was met by a dry choke. He turned them again but still the engine failed to start. The Uzbeks were closing in on him, lolling forward as the long grass swept past their shoulders.

The leader of the pack was almost upon him. He raised a bottle above his head and charged across the last few metres of open ground. The cry in his throat twisted like a knife. Yue shut his eyes and turned the key once more, revving the engine as he did so. The exhaust let out a sputter then hummed into life, the pipe rattling loosely against the wheel arch. Yue accelerated away from his attacker, just as the bottle came down on the spot where his head had been.