The village has been no less united and vigorous in ridiculing our efforts. With every generation of eggs that has hatched, however, we’ve added to the days saved, the certainty of raising an eighth generation of worms, harvesting an extra crop of silk.
“Endure,” I beg my husband. “Be patient. Do nothing rash. By season’s end we’ll have the cash to buy your freedom and purchase your passage home.”
THE SUPPLY BOAT has always come to the dunghill with its barrels of food and water protected by canvas and generous lashings of rope. Before returning to Pisco, the boatmen again cover the empty barrels and tie them down. Now, as the swells under the boat intensify, signaling landfall, Luis tugs and yanks off the canvas from the barrels closest to where I’m sprawled on the deck. Miguel squats beside me.
“Amigo,” he says, taking one of my hands in his and curling my fingers over a double binding of rope.
Nodding, I grab rope with my other hand too, brace my feet against the boat’s side to keep from rolling across the deck and tumbling into the boatmen as they maneuver for landing. Luis and Miguel drag the canvas over me. At their care in covering me from head to toe, poking and tucking in folds so the canvas can’t slide off, I realize their intent isn’t to protect me from crashing breakers but from prying eyes, and dread, more than the scarcity of air, chokes me.
When the boat shoots forward, I tighten my grip on the ropes and dig my heels into unyielding wood. Hemp bites into my palms. My ankles feel as if they’re splintering.
Then the boat is plummeting, bumping my head and knees, scraping my chest across gritty planks. Spray splatters loud as the rapid-fire of lead, skewering the rough canvas to my arms, my back, my legs.
Over and over the boat rides high, then dives; I toss in skin-rending, bone-grinding thumps. Suddenly, though, the skidding and slamming halts; the rat-a-tat of spray above is replaced by the familiar crunch of shale below, and I know we’ve landed, the boat is being dragged.
In a rush of relief, I let my feet sag onto the deck, tear my stiffened fingers from the rope. The sections of canvas plastered against me shift. Horrified, I stop.
So does the rattle of shale.
Because the boat is far enough from the water?
Or because my movements have given me away and the boatmen have been ordered to stop?
If there have been any commands, any voices at all, they’ve been—and are yet—drowned in thundering surf, the blood pounding in my ears. But are those footfalls I feel on the deck?
Yes.
Fighting for calm, I suck in deep breaths of suffocating damp. I remind myself that were we on the dunghill, the boatmen would be reboarding to unload. Likely they follow the same routine here, and the footfalls are theirs.
The thought offers little comfort. Just as I used to help the boatmen unload on the dunghill, there might be villagers who lend a hand here. That could, in fact, be why the boatmen decided to hide me under the canvas.
Perhaps there are even soldiers!
My every nerve and muscle taut, I’m ready to spring to my feet and over the side of the boat while hurling the canvas on top of soldiers aiming muskets, villagers who’d sell me back to the devil-king. But then, in a momentary lull between breakers, I catch Alfonso’s joyful whistle threading through the screech and caw of birds. Despite the canvas, I recognize the soothing weight of his hand on my back, clasping my shoulder. So I make no move. Not even after he pulls up the edge of the canvas and I smell woodsmoke in the salt-air.
Yes, the smell of woodsmoke in Strongworm used to send everybody in the fields home, and for as long as we were eating, the streets were empty. But Alfonso must want me to remain hidden or he’d have thrown off the canvas altogether.
ONCE AGAIN ROBERTO’ S straw hat hides my queue, shadows my face. My pants are a gift from Miguel, my shirt from Luis. Of course, my disguise as an indio can’t shield me from arousing curiosity in Pisco as a stranger, but its huddle of small, poorly plastered houses is far from the water, and although birds are as plentiful in number and variety here as on the dunghill, there don’t seem to be any diggers or drivers or soldiers; the boatmen and I are the only people visible on the long, wide beach, the rocks and cliffs beyond.
Gulls and blue, squab-like birds back away from us in beady-eyed huffs, resettling as we pass. Suddenly, there are terrified shrieks and panicked wing flapping not far from the area where we’re headed, the area Roberto— smiling and nodding vigorously—pointed to when I told the boatmen I needed work and asked for direction.
Alarmed, I wonder whether Miguel and Luis, going home to fetch me clothes, slipped in and out in secret or explained what they were doing to their families. If I’m caught, the boatmen’s help in my escape will be obvious, so I’m certain I can count on their families’ silence even if they don’t share the men’s willingness to help me. Someone could have overheard Miguel or Luis and decided to set a trap for us, however. Should we run?
Roberto, in the lead, hasn’t quickened his pace. Nor have Luis to my right or Miguel to my left. Behind us, Alfonso’s whistling is untroubled. Keeping my stride matched to theirs, I try to determine the cause of the disturbance.
Ah!
A short distance from the panicked squawkers, red-throated vultures are hopping jerkily amidst a silent, unmoving mass of black, pouch-beaked birds. From similar scenes I’ve witnessed, the vultures are probably devouring the gentle pouch-beaked birds’ young. Which would mean the other birds aren’t squawking and screeching and flapping because men are lurking, setting a trap for the boatmen and myself, but to alert eagles out at sea to the vultures’ attack.
I look to the water for confirmation. Sure enough, sea-eagles are beating their wings in a quick return to shore for the babes’ defense.
Now, ahead of us, the vultures are taking flight. I know what will happen next. Each of the sea-eagles, flying ever higher, will position itself directly above a vulture. Then the sea-eagle will close its wings and plunge into the vulture with the force of an arrow shot from a bow.
The sea-eagles never miss, and in the fights that follow, the vultures are always mortally wounded. But that doesn’t bring the babes back to life or ease their parents’ misery any more than it prevents future attacks, and I realize the boatmen’s efforts to save me might prove as futile. In truth, although they flank me on every side, I feel as vulnerable as a pouch-beaked babe, and I scour the beach for places from which someone might pounce.
Scattered among the birds and flat-bottomed scows are what look like sheaves of rice. Yet there are no fields in view, nothing growing except scraggly palms. Were the sheaves not commonplace though, wouldn’t the boatmen be cocking their heads, muttering to each other in suspicion? And there actually is something familiar about the sheaves.
No wonder! They’re upturned boats, the kind with tapered prows. While on the dunghill, I saw many such vessels, admired the ease with which they skimmed over the surface of the sea. Chufat called them caballitos, little horses, and paddlers straddling these vessels do resemble horsemen. As narrow as these caballitos are, however, they’re wide enough for a man to hide behind, so I eye them warily.
Then Roberto halts abruptly at a caballito that’s not upturned to dry but prepared for launching, and I’m grateful beyond measure: The farther I get from Pisco, the safer I’ll be, and a caballito will carry me away much faster than my feet.
LUIS, HIS SQUASHED nose flared with emotion, has explained in talk and gestures that he and Miguel will stay in Pisco; we have already exchanged heartfelt farewells. But all four boatmen, standing knee deep in water, hold the caballito for me to board. Of course, they cannot prevent the boat, made of reeds, from bobbing in the dangerous swirl of incoming rollers, receding waves, and I fail repeatedly.
When at last I tumble in, I almost swamp the boat. Afraid I’ll be knocked back out and, unable to fight the undertow, get dragged to sea while Roberto and Alfonso are boarding, I clutch the sides, dig my fingers deep into the reeds.
; Roberto and Alfonso, however, deftly straddle the cabal-lito on their first try, and once I’m safely wedged between them, Miguel and Luis release their holds in a final burst of words that are lost in the crashing surf. Then we’re hurtling out to sea as if we’re galloping over mountains on a well trained horse.
Beyond the breakers, the water—lit by slanting beams of hot afternoon sun—is so clear that I not only see schools of fish flashing gold and silver near the surface but far below. Troops of little black-and-white buffalo birds, absurdly clumsy on land and incapable of flight, deliberately tumble from rocks into the sea with their wings outstretched, turn swift and graceful as they glide into the deep. Giant turtles swim in solitary splendor while sleek, gray snouted creatures—long as I am tall— frolic like children.
Rising from the sea floor is all manner of plant life. The myriad greens are like a glimpse of Strongworm’s fields on the other side of the world, and I’m flooded anew with longing for home, gratitude for the boatmen’s generosity.
MOONGIRL SAYS SHIPS take over four months to reach Peru. So the moment Ba approved my plan for incubating eggs and raising an eighth generation of worms, I began urging him to send the merchants’ guild a guarantee that we would pay for Ah Lung’s freedom, his passage home.
Ba never scolded me for asking, but he insisted, “We should not pledge what we do not have. I’ll write soon as we have the cash.”
After Ma and Fourth Brother-in-law added their voices to mine, however, Ba surrendered to his own eagerness for Ah Lung’s return.
Now, by my calculations, Ba’s pledge—turned over to Master Yee through Moongirl, then forwarded to the merchants’ guild—should have arrived, and I assure my husband, “Any day someone will come for you.”
ON THE DUNGHILL, I used to welcome the cooling breeze that came in from the southeast every afternoon. In the caballito, this breeze feels more like a wind, and it’s been whipping up the sea so that water slops over the sides. Since the water disappears into the caballito’s reeds, there’s no need to bail, and neither Roberto nor Alfonso have missed a beat in their rhythmic paddling. Nor have they veered from the course they set on leaving Pisco, not even when enormous sea lions surfaced nearby and swam alongside or, worse, somersaulted, making the caballito bounce crazily.
Despite the boatmen’s steady paddling, there’s still nothing but bleak, inaccessible cliffs on one side, vast, restless ocean on the other. Chufat was not exaggerating when he’d said Peru’s coast is desolate! How much further before there’s sign of people, paying work?
My back stiffened long ago. My fingers, strangled by the reeds in which I sank them, are swelling. But I force them deeper. The caballito has been narrowly scraping past jagged rocks, slicing through waves so monstrous that Roberto and Alfonso are shouting back and forth.
Can they hear each other, see through these torrents of blinding spray?
Why does it feel like we’ve taken wing—slammed into inky darkness. . . .
My head an explosion of bird cries and thundering surf, I sense rather than hear Roberto encourage, “Venga, amigo. Venga aquí.”
Painfully prying my fingers out of the caballito, I reach out, feel Roberto grab my arms, hoist me up. My knees snag on something flinty, my feet slip-slide on slime, and as my eyes adjust to the darkness, I realize we’re in a cavern, on a rough-edged slab of rock slick with fresh bird droppings.
Once I’m standing steady, Roberto releases me. His moon face vanishes, and I panic. Then I see he’s just leaning down to take a bundle from Alfonso, still in the caballito.
I want to help. Afraid of slipping and tumbling off the ledge, capsizing the caballito, and tossing Alfonso as well as myself into the churning black water, though, I’m too slow. Roberto, moving with his usual confidence, is already setting the bundle on the ledge, turning, and directing an urgent deluge of words at me.
I catch only a word or two, but I think I understand: It isn’t safe to go any further for the day; we’ll pass the night here.
“Sí,” I say.
“Vaya con Dios ,” he responds.
What?
“Vaya con Dios,” Alfonso bellows from the caballito.
The words resound in prolonged echoes.
Vaya, go.
Con, with.
Dios. A name?
Ai, Roberto has vaulted back into the caballito, which is catapulting out of the cavern on the crest of an outgoing wave!
As I stare in shock at the narrow arch through which Roberto and Alfonso have disappeared, birds screech; there’s the slap of mountainous flesh against rock; I hear horrifying barks. Is the cavern home to sea lions, sea lions that are hauling themselves up to this ledge for an attack?
Shuddering, I back away from the edge. All too soon, rock grazes my ankles. Turning to face the wall, I hunt for a higher outcropping.
I see many.
But they’re bristling with birds.
Or too small.
Too drenched by spray.
Too difficult to reach.
I realize then that Roberto and Alfonso did not chance on this particular ledge, and for them to have brought the caballito to it so swiftly and unerringly, they must know this cavern well, believe I’ll be safe here until Dios comes.
How long will I have to wait for Dios? Can I figure it out from what Roberto and Alfonso left me?
Lest I slip and need to catch myself, I clutch knobs of rock in my sore, puffy fingers while squatting. Once firmly planted on the ledge, I clasp the cloth-wrapped bundle with both hands, lodge it between my knees.
Wah, the knot is secure, and my fingers are clumsy because they’re swollen. But I finally work loose two loops of the cloth wrap, revealing the sides of an earthenware jar topped by a metal tin.
The knot completely undone, the entire wrap falls to the ledge, and I recognize the cloth is the kind of blanket-like cloak loaders wear. The tin, easily opened, holds rice boiled with beans. The jar has water.
I have yet to eat or drink today, and my belly, pinched with hunger, rumbles; my parched throat throbs. Bending, I press my lips to the mouth of the jar, seize the earthenware handles, tilt it. Water flows into my mouth, my throat, and I gulp greedily—once, twice, three times before setting down the jar and picking up the tin.
Eating with my fingers, salt stings my myriad nicks and cuts, but the rice and beans, spiced with peppers, are delicious, and when a bird swoops down, loudly demanding a share, I shout, wildly swinging my free arm. The bird is undaunted and the noise attracts more. Dismayed, I quickly replace the tin’s lid. Still birds swarm over me, shrieking, squawking, swatting me with their wings. In the fracas, my hat is knocked askew, the water jar teeters dangerously. Screaming even louder than the birds, I throw my arms around the jar. Talons pierce fabric, my back. Pointy beaks stab metal, peck my fingers clutching the tin, the jar. Will persistent stabbing crack the clay? Too anxious to take that chance, I toss the tin into an outgoing wave. Instantly, the birds abandon me to dive after it, and although I know the sacrifice was necessary, I regret its loss.
WAVES DASHING AGAINST rocks and walls wash off much of the waste from sea lions and birds. Even so, the stink in this head-splitting echo chamber is loathsome, and I doubt I need knobs of rock pressing into my back to keep me awake. But I feel as exhausted as if I have dug a full quota of guano, and to ensure I don’t inadvertently sink into sleep, roll off the ledge, and drown, I sit leaning against the cavern’s rough wall. Wind gusts in with the waves, and my cloak is as damp from spray as my clothes. There’s no chance of their drying either, not in this dark, dank hole. Drawing my knees up to my chest, I wrap my arms around my legs for warmth. Still, I’m cold. But I am no longer a captive on the dunghill, and given the rations the boatmen left me, I expect Dios will take me from this cavern tomorrow.
Who is this Dios?
Someone who must be as familiar with these waters, this cavern as the boatmen, and as willing to help me.
Unless I’ve been fooled by the boatmen
as I was by the buyer in Callao, the giant in the Macao pigpen, the man-stealer in the market town.
No.
I can’t believe that.
I won’t.
And yet. How many stories have I heard from pigs snared by devils posing as benefactors?
But those devils sought out their victims. I approached the boatmen, and they’ve shown me true friendship.
Then why did they bring me to this cavern?
I don’t know. But they must have good reasons, reasons that, when revealed, will win both my approval and gratitude.
NIGHTFALL TURNS THE cavern’s gloom ink black. Although there’s no relief from the relentless crash of waves and spray, the sea lions and birds settle on their rocks and ledges, stop their squabbling and bantering.
Now, in the lulls between waves, I can hear sea lions grunting as they shift positions, even their sob-like breaths, and I’m reminded of night-sounds in the sleeping shed, the diggers I left behind.
Ah Kam would, I’m sure, sneer that I’m no better off here than on the dunghill. Certainly I realize I’ve a long way to go before I reach home. Without the boatmen’s generosity in befriending a stranger, however, I wouldn’t have made it this far. And when, with my first earnings, I buy paper, brush, and ink to tell my family I’m free, I swear I’ll also write the emperor on behalf of those yet in captivity.
“You?” Ah Kam scoffs.
“Yes. I, Wong Yuet Lung, will petition the emperor as Fook Sing Gung once did. I will.”
DAY DRAGS INTO night again. Hard as I’ve stared at the arched entrance, there’s been no Dios, and the backs of my eyes burn like coals; disappointment sharpens my hunger, the stiffness in my arms and legs.
God of Luck Page 14
