God of Luck

by Ruthann Lum McCunn

  I’D BEEN CAPTURED while our family was raising our fifth generation of worms. By my reckoning, the silk season had ended. Ba would be talking to my brothers about draining our fish ponds, harvesting the fish, and dredging up the mud at the bottom.

  This mud—rich from the nightsoil and worm waste that we fed the fish as well as their own droppings—was perfect for fertilizing our fields. Digging up the muck was smelly, filthy, backbreaking work, however, and my brothers hated the chore. Until my marriage, I had too.

  In the years since, I’d looked forward to it. Bo See and I had no chance to see each other unclothed in the full light of day. Before shoveling mud from our ponds, though, I’d shed my jacket, roll my pants up to my thighs, and Bo See, bringing water out to me, would caress my legs with her gaze. Despite the rank smells steaming from the muck, she’d linger to watch my muscles swell, ripple up my arms, and across my back. If no one else was near, she’d even unbutton the stiff collar that hugged her neck, revealing the delicate hollow where throat meets chest, and hike her long, loose pants above her shapely ankles and calves, exposing pale, smooth skin.

  Lest we draw the attention of someone passing, we never spoke. Nor did we dare touch. But our eyes, meeting, would burn with remembered pleasure, impatience for the joyful play night would bring.

  EVERY AUTUMN, AH Lung would pick bak yuk lan blossoms for me on his way home from the family’s ponds. I’d tuck them into my bun, and their heady scent would tease deliciously as we ate our evening meal, perfume our bed when at last we unpinned my hair for play.

  In anticipation of my husband’s return, I laid fresh bak yuk lan on his pillow. Each time their fragrance faded and the soft white petals curled brittle brown, I plucked more.

  AT HOME, MEN in mourning did not shave the crowns of their heads, and it seemed fitting to me that on the devil-ship, we had the shaggy, unkempt look of mourners: The captain had sailed from Macao with almost eight-hundred captives; in sight of Peru, the count did not reach five hundred.

  Moreover, we’d been stolen for our strength. But when the devils drove us on deck after four months at sea, many were too debilitated to climb the ladders, or they collapsed on deck from the effort. Others, when hosed with salt water, toppled under the force of the stream.

  I could still pick up the fallen and carry them beyond reach of the hose. While scraping the grime from my limbs, though, I easily circled my thighs with both hands, my upper arms with one, and my chest felt as deeply ridged as a new washboard. Would I have to waste precious months in a fatteninghouse?

  Twitchy, quivering and blinking as much as ever, had explained that ships cannot enter Callao’s harbor until a health officer, having inspected the vessel and all on board, declared them clean. So our quarters would be scrubbed while we washed. The platforms destroyed in the mutiny would be repaired. Our clothes, rotted into rags, would be replaced with new jackets and pants.

  “Once the ship has sailed into the harbor, you’ll line up on deck by your berth numbers. Buyers will take the numbered tags from the necks of those whose contracts they wish to purchase, and after they’ve finished making their selections, you’ll board boats that will ferry you to shore.

  “Don’t be alarmed if you’re too thin or infirm to attract a buyer. There are fatteninghouses in Callao where you can regain your health with rest and good food.”

  “Ahhh,” purred Big Belly.

  A fevered bag of sagging skin and bones, Big Belly couldn’t stand without support. But he’d outlived Toothless, Ah Jook, and Sleepy.

  Ah Ming, too, was gone, and when I hoisted Big Belly onto my back and up the ladder, he gurgled into my ear, “Didn’t . . . I . . . say . . . I’m . . . lucky?”

  In the past ten days, I’d noticed more and more birds when going above as steward: little three-inch sooty puffs that walked on water; dusky brown goose-necked creatures with wingspans of nine or ten feet; birds the size of pigeons; some that looked like crows; others that flew low like ducks. So I wasn’t startled by the thousands of birds darkening an otherwise dazzling sky, cawing and shrilling plaints. Big Belly scrabbled weakly at my neck, my back.

  “The birds won’t harm you,” I soothed as I lowered him into a sheltered area near the sickroom. “The devils won’t bother you either. They have their hands full working the pump and hose and guarding the sides of the ship.”

  Still Big Belly fumbled at my ankles. Had my assurances been drowned in bird cries, the thunderous racket of men released at last from close confinement?

  “I’ll come back to wash you soon as I scrub off the worst of my dirt,” I promised in a shout. “Otherwise I’ll just be adding mine to yours.”

  MINDFUL OF MY promise to Big Belly, I washed my hair without taking time to unravel all the snarls, rinsed it in vinegar-water to kill any remaining lice, then headed back to the sickroom.

  My hair clung wetly to my neck, shoulders, and back. Water, black with filth, swirled around my ankles. Jostling through the crush on the main deck, I could only take small steps. Even so, I splattered men newly clean who grumbled and cursed despite my repeated apologies.

  After the main mast, there was less water, fewer men, and I quickened my pace. To my bewilderment, Big Belly wasn’t where I’d left him. Had he crawled inside the sickroom to flee the birds or the encroaching water?

  I scanned floor and beds from the doorway. The room was completely empty. Could someone be washing the sick on the other side of the ship? Had they included Big Belly?

  Darting over to a little round window, I poked my head out: Two brawny sailors were tying heavy stones around Big Belly’s ankles as if he were a corpse.

  “No!” I cried. “He’s alive.”

  But Big Belly was already in the air, plummeting into the sea. At the splash, birds that had been bobbing in the water screeched and wheeled up in a wild scramble of beating wings. Red, roaring at the sailors, pointed towards another wraith leaking piteous tears.

  If there were others from the between-decks who witnessed these killings, they said nothing as the devil-ship sailed into Callao. I, too, was silent. Speaking among ourselves saved no one, and speaking to murdering devils could only bring more trouble.

  But I wondered: Could the captain’s desperate attempts to hide his deviltry from Peruvian officials mean they were a civilized people?

  Certainly the Peruvians’ provision of fatteninghouses showed generosity. And the between-decks, readied for their inspection, smelled of soap, pitch, and freshly strewn straw; instead of cupping together like spoons, we could at last lie flat on our backs.

  Moreover, we’d always been issued hard biscuits and water, then locked below as the ship headed into port. In Callao, we’d be going above even before our contracts were purchased.

  Surely these changes signified that Peruvians would, at the very least, treat us fairly. After I earned enough silver to make my family comfortable, perhaps my master would let me buy out the balance of my contract and go home early!

  First, I had to attract a buyer.

  MY VIEW OF shore was obscured by dozens of two- and three-masted vessels surrounding the ship, the rise and fall of the deck beneath my feet, the orderly rows of men ahead of me, on either side. But I did not care. Lively as a silkworm changing its skin, I was shedding my jacket, as Twitchy had instructed, studying the pale-faced, white-clad buyers swarming through our ranks, twirling men like tops, tapping chests, squeezing limbs.

  With the intensity of a gambler shrewdly calculating his odds, I noted who the buyers chose, who they refused, and as one approached me, I arranged my face in the docile expression that gentry back home also preferred. To demonstrate my strength, I did not ball my hands into fists or stamp my feet; I flexed the muscles in my arms while running in place. The instant he reached out to turn me, I spun around to show I was quick-witted and just as my wrists bore no marks from shackles, my back wasn’t scarred by whips. Docile as a girl offering proof of sound teeth and sweet breath to a matchmaker, I opened my mouth for
examination. Although his fingers pressed hard on my sore gums, I neither yelped nor winced.

  Yanking my numbered tag, the buyer signified his approval, and as the twine bit into my neck before snapping, I offered a prayer of thanks to the God of Luck.

  SEATED ACROSS FROM Moongirl at the table, Ba extended both arms, emphasizing he wasn’t just speaking for himself but for his sons to his left, his wife and me to his right.

  “We’ve come to accept Ah Lung must have failed to escape from the devil-ship.”

  Secretly, I still cherished the hope Ah Lung was making his way home, and despite Ba’s declaration, he and the others must have as well, for at Moongirl’s sharp nod of agreement, every face around the table reflected my own dismay. Ba’s arms dropped heavily, his teeth ground. Ma’s eyes leaked tears.

  Moongirl urged us not to despair. “Canton traders say that free Chinese in Peru intercede on behalf of countrymen laboring under contracts—just like the God of Luck did for enslaved dwarves when he was a mortal.”

  Ma brightened. “May these free Chinese soon secure the release—”

  “No,” Moongirl interrupted. “The contracts are binding and can’t be broken. But free Chinese speak out against mistreatment. So Ah Lung won’t be friendless, and once we receive a letter from him, we can send advice for how he can best preserve his strength until his contract expires and he is released.”

  Her parents and brothers seized this bone. I could not. Murmuring, “I’ll get more tea,” I bolted into the kitchen.

  Eldest Sister-in-law, coming in from the courtyard with more kindling, gave me a questioning look. I picked up the teapot, returned to the main room and circled the table, pouring tea.

  From the kitchen, kindling in the stove snapped and popped as loud as the talk around me. Suddenly, there was a hiss of fat, prolonged sizzling.

  Moongirl reared up like a silkworm sensing the approach of tender, sweet mulberry. “Aaaah, fried chrysalids.”

  For the first time since Ah Lung’s capture, Third Brother-in-law’s eyes sparkled with mischief, and he mock wailed in his sister’s higher pitch, “Hurry, Eldest Sister-in-law! My mouth is watering.”

  The corners of Second Brother-in-law’s lips twitched from suppressed laughter. “Third Brother, where did the chrysalids come from?”

  “When our wives stopped reeling yesterday, they drained their cauldrons of water, scooped out the chrysalids at the bottom, and spread them to dry so Eldest Sister-in-law could cook them today.”

  “Then shouldn’t they be the ones to enjoy the treat, not Moongirl?”

  As Moongirl, her parents, and brothers burst into laughter, Eldest Sister-in-law entered with a heaping platter of glistening chrysalids fried to a crisp, Second Brother-in-law grabbed a pair of chopsticks from the center of the table, lifted it to his lips, and tooted long trumpet blasts.

  I retreated to the bed I’d shared with my husband. “Have you begun the labor for which you were stolen?” I asked him. “Is your master kind?”

  DURING THE TEN days’ sail from Callao to the dunghill where I labor, gray islands rose out of the sea, spouted water, then vanished; silver-winged fish leaped into the air and flew like birds; enormous brown-pelted, bewhiskered slugs barked like dogs and swam like fish.

  The talk of men squeezed alongside me on the sloop’s deck was no less bewildering. Plumped in fatteninghous-es, they said these places are not run by generous benefactors for charity but greedy speculators who purchase the buyers’ leavings on the cheap in hopes of selling them later at a profit. Furthermore, if health officers find contagion on a ship coming into port, the vessel is placed under quarantine for up to thirty days, thirty days in which all on board must be fed and watered at the captain’s expense. But there are companies that guarantee cargoes, and since these companies pay the owners of devil-ships in full for their dead, it profits the captains to cram as many captives as they can into their between-decks, spend as little as possible on the men’s care, then throw the near-dead into the sea before arrival.

  Listening to these revelations, I became so agitated I chewed the insides of my cheeks until I tasted blood. Men obviously in the same state of bewildered distress asked whether there are companies that pay compensation for dead laborers in Peru.

  The answer, although no, offered little relief since it included this: A master’s profits so exceeds the cost of his laborers that most are as careless with lives as the captains of the devil-ships.

  On the sloop, I clung to the word “most,” the possibility of a kind master, silver I could send home. Upon landing, however, it became clear that in winning the approval of my buyer, I was no different from a silkworm spinning its own coffin, and much as I want to believe I can yet break out of the darkness and fly free, I fear I’ll die in the service of my master.

  RESPONSIBILITY FOR THE wormhouse excuses me from reeling cocoons, even those from a season’s final generation of worms. As a girl, though, I’d learned to simultaneously throw multiple cocoons into a basin of boiling water to dissolve the stickiness binding the silk, pluck out the separated strands, spool them into a single strong thread, and when I offer to help my sisters-in-law reel, they accept.

  Compelled to stand inches from the crackling fire, my thighs soon burn. Bending into the suffocating clouds of steam rising above the basin, my face drips sweat, melts. My fingers, dipping in and out of the scalding water, turn pink and tender as boiled shrimp. The concentration necessary to keep the strands from tangling or breaking wraps my head in a vise.

  I welcome these discomforts. They help deaden the pain of my husband’s absence.

  THE ENORMOUS BARKING slugs are, I’ve learned, sea lions. Their droppings and those of birds are called guano in Spanish. And so effective is this guano supposed to be as fertilizer that, although there are five-hundred diggers on this island, we can’t get ahead of the demand; there are always well over a hundred ships from around the world waiting—most for two or even three months—to be loaded.

  At night we have a respite from the head-splitting clamor of the sea lions and birds. But even in sleep, the sharp, pisslike smell of guano pinches my nose, eyes, and throat, and when I begin digging at dawn, a dank, dense mist wraps around my bones. By midmorning, the sun burns off the last trace of mist, the heat grows stifling as the days before a big wind, my chest threatens to burst from lack of air.

  The clouds overhead, resembling sheets of pale smoke, are too thin and hang too high in the sky to provide any ease from the sun’s arrows, any hint of rain, and I long for them to turn dark and heavy, then shatter in brilliant flashes of lightning and thunderclaps, letting loose a deluge. But no rain falls here. That’s why droppings beyond reach of the pounding surf don’t wash away, why these gray, treeless hills and steep cliffs are solid guano, the sharp, pisslike smell so pervasive.

  There are actually three islands. On the largest, North Island, diggers have labored for twenty years, and the hills are scarred by deep cuts. Still they rise a hundred feet and more above the sea, every bit as high as the hills here on Middle Island, which is half as large and has been worked half as long. As for South Island, its rounded hills— untouched by diggers and swarming with thousands of noisy sea lions and birds—are continuing to grow.

  Flocks of birds, some as large as these dunghills, darken the sky. When overhead, the relief their shadows cast is as merciful as if Gwoon Yum herself has come.

  “Look,” I cry. “Take pity on us! Tell a bird—say one of those with a pouch hanging from a beak the length of my arm—to swoop down—”

  Before I can complete my plea, the flock passes, shrilling and cawing, the sun hits with renewed venom, and I rebuke myself yet again for my foolishness, my inability to accept that here we are beyond Gwoon Yum’s reach, beyond that of Fook Sing Gung, every God in Heaven.

  Tightening my grip on the sweat-slick handle of the pickaxe, I swing. As the axe arcs, lightning streaks up my arms and across my shoulders; my heart thrashes against my ribs. Then the
axe strikes ground, and my whole body judders. Grit nettles my calves. Chalky powder spirals up, thickening the haze from hundreds of axes hammering the hard-packed guano, shovels tossing crumbling clods through screens, filling baskets and wheelbarrows with the dust, dust that clogs my nostrils, seeps through my lips, coats my tongue, settles in my throat.

  My eyes, afire, flood. Snorting and coughing, I swipe at them with the sodden rag around my neck. Nothing clears. I cannot see beyond my hands and feet. But the devils driving us have eyes like hawks, the strength to send us spinning with a kick, to cut us down with their rawhide whips, and although my arms protest, I raise my axe, bring it down.

  PEDRO CHUFAT, WHO runs the store on North Island, wears a western-style straw hat and hard leather shoes, Chinese jacket and pants. He has the gold teeth, long nails, and excess flesh of a prosperous, middle-aged merchant, the leathery hands of a man once familiar with labor.

  Every seventh day, Chufat brings over merchandise and sets up a stall for a few hours in the late afternoon. His goods are overpriced, poor in quality, and often damaged. With no one else to buy from, however, we diggers push ourselves hard to finish our day’s work so we can go, and no matter how much Chufat brings, he always sells out.

  Each time a shipment of pigs arrives to replace dead diggers, Chufat trots out an oily apology and string of excuses for his new customers while making brisk sales to old. His stream of patter is even swifter than his trade, and those making translations into other dialects sometimes slur, tripping over words in their efforts to keep pace.

  “I’m ashamed of the mold and waterstains and rust. Really I am. But you know how leaky the foreigners’ oceangoing vessels are, how everything in the coastal sloops that carried you here from Callao gets drenched in spray, and reducing prices is out of the question. I’ve got so many expenses beyond the cost of the goods, which is plenty high after shipping.