Lies That Blind
By E.S. Alexander
What would you risk to avoid obscurity?
Malaya, 1788
Aspiring journalist Jim Lloyd jeopardises his future in ways he never could have imagined. He risks his wealthy father’s wrath to ride the coat-tails of Cap-tain Francis Light, an adventurer governing the East India Company’s new trading settlement on Penang. Once arrived on the island, Jim—as Light’s as-sistant—hopes that chronicling his employer’s achievements will propel them both to enduring fame. But the naïve young man soon discovers that years of deception and double-dealing have strained relations between Light and Pe-nang’s legal owner, Sultan Abdullah of Queda, almost to the point of war. Tensions mount: Pirate activity escalates, traders complain about Light’s mo-nopolies, and inhabitants threaten to flee, fearing a battle the fledgling settle-ment cannot hope to win against the Malays. Jim realises that a shared obses-sion with renown has brought him and Light perilously close to infamy: a fate the younger man, at least, fears more than death. Yet Jim will not leave Pe-nang because of his dedication to Light’s young son, William, and his perplex-ing attraction to a mercurial Dutchman. He must stay and confront his own misguided ambitions as well as help save the legacy of a man he has come to despise.
Inspired by true events, Lies That Blind is a story featuring historical character Francis Light (1740-1794) who, in an effort to defy his mortality, was seem-ingly willing to put the lives and livelihoods of a thousand souls on Penang at risk.
(In the middle of a dinner party, the guests learn of a fire raging in the township. Protagonist, Jim Lloyd, has offered to look after his employer’s wife.)
Standing alone on the veranda of Martinha’s bungalow, I looked beyond the molasses darkness that enveloped our immediate surroundings to a sight similar to that which must have filled the inhabitants of London with dread in 1666. The great swathe of night sky in the distance had turned a blistering orange, licked from beneath by white-hot flames as plumes of dense smoke enclosed the hellish tableau. I trusted that Dr Koenig and the two Englishwomen were now safely sheltered on their ship, the General Coote, yet worried for the many hundreds of inhabitants and visitors whose lives and livelihoods were at risk. What irony to live on an island surrounded by water and watch fire consume everything you own in the world.
I did not hear her sidle up next to me and startled like a nervous colt when Martinha Rozells uttered the words ‘Jalan Malabar’ in my ear. She could see, as I had, that the blaze raged most intensely in the Indian quarter where the Chulias lived. Concerned that she was afraid the fire would reach us despite the distance, I sucked an index finger and held it out beyond the wooden platform. The breeze blew away from us. “Kita selamat,” I said, resisting the urge to squeeze her arm in reassurance. We are safe.
Turning away, we stepped into the main room. The interior of her home was graced with panelling that afforded very little privacy as it divided the space into smaller areas. This was a simple square-built wooden structure, albeit more sizeable than the ones in the Malay kampong.
Martinha surprised me by sitting on the floor and gestured that I join her. She offered me a mug of water which I gratefully glugged down, then held out to receive more. We did this several times to help slake my alcoholic thirst. Sated at last, I noticed she had also brought in an oblong piece of wood and a silk bag that rattled as if full of beads or small coins. I recognised the board immediately as part of a game I had watched men play in the kampong. The board had sixteen holes carved into it: two larger ones at the ends and seven smaller ones on each side. Martinha opened the cloth bag and out spilled an array of tiny shells.
I explained in Malay that while I was quite proud of my improved language skills, having practised with the locals these past few months, I was not yet proficient.
She replied in perfect and only slightly accented English, “Then why don’t we converse in your language?” Before I could respond, mouth agape, she added, “Forgive me, Mr. Lloyd. Or may I call you James?”
“James. Or Jim, whichever you prefer,” I said.
“There is a game Francis and I play to amuse ourselves from time to time, James. Perhaps you think it cruel?”
“What game is that?” I stammered.
“To leave people with the impression that I speak no English. I am not around the officers much so even they do not suspect. But I was educated at a convent school in Madras. I am quite fluent in English, French, Siamese, Portuguese, as well as a little Spanish.”
As if anticipating my next thought, the lady continued, “I knew immediately from their expressions as well as their reference to the ‘black girls’ that attended them at dinner what those two Englishwomen thought of me. It amused me to play along with their assumptions and act the ignorant native.”
I lowered my gaze, guilty of having believed those assumptions myself. “Yet throughout the night you appeared to be—”
“Bored. It is easy to feign a vacant expression when you hear the same superficial mutterings again and again. Although I will admit I found you to be refreshingly candid. I think, if you will forgive my presumption, that we shall get along very well indeed.”
“I was insufferably impertinent at tonight’s dinner,” I mumbled, eyes still downcast.
Martinha leaned across and patted my hand. “Don’t worry. What is illegitimacy these days given the number of bastards around? Some of them born, like that dreadful Hamilton, within wedlock.” She tittered quite delightfully, holding her fan over her mouth, and I think it was at that moment that I became infatuated with Captain Light’s wife.
She added wistfully, “Francis does not always heed my suggestions, but he trusts me when it comes to judging people. I like you, James. You need not concern yourself with my husband dismissing you while that remains the case.”
Placing the wooden board between us and scattering the shells across the floor, she went on, “Let us spend this time playing a game of our own so as not to distress ourselves about events we cannot do anything about.”
I told her this sounded like a wonderful idea, grateful for understanding from a charming potential ally.
“Let us see how good you are at playing congkak,” said Martinha.
I followed her lead and picked up a handful of shells, placing seven in each of the small holes on my side of the board and leaving the larger hole—the ‘house’—empty.
Martinha began her demonstration of the game, although I was somewhat familiar with the strategy required. She removed all the shells from one of the holes and moving clockwise around the board deposited one each into the next seven hollows, including her house. Watching her was mesmerising, a welcome relief from dark thoughts. When it came to my turn, I tried to remember what I needed to do. She swatted my hand playfully with her fan when I either dropped one of my shells into her house—a wrong move—or thought my turn was over prematurely. My heart lurched every time at her touch.
The more I got the hang of congkak, the faster she played, and I tried to follow suit, making many mistakes and laughing at the fun we were having. She told me she had taught the game to her children to help them learn to count. There were ninety-eight shells in play and whoever earned the most would be declared the winner. Before long there were no more shells in any of the small cavities, just the larger houses at each end of the wooden board.
“Let’s count them together in Malay so you can practice your numbers,” she suggested. We chanted in unison, at the end of which Martinha looked at me with mock humility and declared herself, rightly, the winner.
“Again?” she asked, and I nodded.
As we played one game after another and my confidence grew, although not my ability to best her, Martinha and I began to converse more. Midway through our third game, my opponent having won the previous two, I felt bold enough to ask, “Before tonight, I had wondered how to address a Malay princess.”
Martinha’s dark, almond eyes looked quizzical. I pressed ahead, recklessly. “You are a Malay princess are you not?”
She fanned away that idea with the hand not clutching a palm full of small shells and laughed. “Goodness. Wherever did hear that?”
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E.S. Alexander
E.S. Alexander was born in St. Andrews, Scotland in 1954, although her fami-ly moved to England a few years later. Her earliest memories include produc-ing a newspaper with the John Bull printing set she was given one Christmas. She wrote and directed her first play, Osiris, at age 16, performed to an audi-ence of parents, teachers, and pupils by the Lower Fifth Drama Society at her school in Bolton, Lancashire. Early on in her writing career, Liz wrote several short stories featuring ‘The Dover Street Sleuth’, Dixon Hawke for a D.C. Thomson newspaper in Scotland. Several of her (undoubtedly cringe-worthy) teenage poems were published in An Anthology of Verse.
Liz combined several decades as a freelance journalist writing for UK maga-zines and newspapers ranging from British Airway’s Business Life and the Dai-ly Mail, to Marie Claire and Supply Chain Management magazine, with a brief stint as a presenter/reporter for various radio stations and television channels, including the BBC. In 2001 she moved to the United States where she earned her master’s degree and Ph.D. in educational psychology from The University of Texas at Austin.
She has written and co-authored 17 internationally published, award-winning non-fiction books that have been translated into more than 20 languages.
In 2017, Liz relocated to Malaysia. She lives in Tanjung Bungah, Pulau Pinang where she was inspired to embark on one of the few forms of writing left for her to tackle: the novel.
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The Coffee Pot Book Club