Only a few of them were to enter the jungle at the same time—this was usual, going in small groups to avoid detection. A little before midnight, they arrived one by one at the meeting place, a disused petrol station some distance from the main road, knowing each other from the identifying marks: a red cloth tied around one wrist, a cigarette behind the left ear. There were four others besides him, all young men. They nodded, but no one wanted to be the first to speak. He wondered if Siew Li was elsewhere at that moment, meeting her own group, all of them droplets of water trickling towards the vast ocean.
He smelled frangipani in the air. The Malays said this meant a pontianak was in the vicinity, waiting to tear your soft belly open with her claws and devour your insides with her comely mouth. A dog howled, far away. The air was thick and heavy, heat rising like a plague from the dark tar of the road. He thought of his mother, wished he could have left her a note. He thought about the many branches of Sungai Sendat, the streams across Batang Kali he would never see again. All these years, and he’d never looked for his father’s grave. That was behind him now, the river moving inexorably onwards, new lands ahead.
The pick-up truck arrived dead on time. The driver jumped from the cabin and said the password, and they each responded correctly. Piled into the back as it sped off, they could have been itinerant workers being ferried to a construction site. Hunched against the sides, knees drawn up to their chins, they knew they ought to sleep, but their eyes remained bright and open. Small bundles of possessions rattled by their feet, now and then jolted into the air by the bumpy road.
After five hours along dirt tracks, the driver pulled up. “Rest,” he said. They were to start thinking of what their new names would be. This was why they hadn’t shared their old names—as long as they told no one here, there’d be nothing to betray, and their families would be safe. As brothers of the same batch, they would share the same first character.
Without much thought, going by instinct, they settled on Xiong, and Nam Teck became Xiongmin, a hero of the people. They spoke Mandarin, not their hometown dialects, and managed to make themselves understood to each other. In the jungle they would speak only Putonghua, the common tongue, just as in China. Each camp would have former teachers to drill them in the language, and anyone too old or stupid to learn would have to be a cook or builder, not a fighter.
They slept fitfully as the full moon spilled pallid light over the uncovered truck, until the grunt of the engine starting woke them. Treetops flew by overhead, glints of sun beginning to peek through. When they stopped again, the driver grinned, “Welcome to Perak.” They’d crossed the state line, using small roads to avoid police checkpoints. He tossed them a bag with their breakfast in it: rice and a small piece of fish, individual portions wrapped in leaves.