It was not long coming. The Zhang family was the first to be called to face the tribunal that Ren Ren had set up in the square. The same elders who had debated with the Christians earlier in the morning were now seated again at the table as judges of their fellow villagers. Ren Ren paced behind smugly, an impresario admiring his own production.
Miller Zhang and his sons stumbled blinking into the sunlight and had to pass through a cordon of villagers to get to the table. Many had gone back home to get their pitchforks and hoes, and such was the hatred of this family in the village that a few blows were struck even before they reached the tribunal.
The trial was perfunctory. Headman Yang had recovered his composure. In fact, he was looking pleased with himself, having convinced himself that in stabbing Pastor John he had committed a noble, even heroic act. The land issue was not mentioned. Miller Zhang was too proud to disclaim his family’s Christianity. In fact, he had flaunted it so much in the past that he could hardly deny it now. He also knew that Yang would never allow him to recant. He had decided while waiting in the dark church that he would die bravely. Whether he ultimately did or not was difficult to determine. On Yang’s signal he and his sons were surrounded by villagers with hoes and hacked to pieces.
There was a longer debate over the next victim, a cobbler, whose harmlessness—unlike the Zhangs—had never aroused any animosity in the village. He knelt and wept, confessed freely to his error and promised to give up his Christianity. Ren Ren in the end had to intervene, pointing out the obvious truth that all Christians were liars so his retraction could hardly be genuine. The cobbler died under the hoes.
The next trial was shorter. Ren Ren congratulated the tribunal. ‘You’re getting into the rhythm,’ he said. ‘That’s good.’
Sister Elena was still lying, ignored and traumatised, on the ground. She was aware of what was going on, but it seemed distant and unreal, as if she was watching a play. Part of her knew that she was displaying cowardice. It was her duty to do something to protect these people, friends of hers, who were being murdered before her eyes—but at the same time she felt powerless, unable to move. Calling on the saints for strength was no use—something had died in her when she saw her beloved Pastor John fall to his death. She could not reach that quiet part of herself, full of love and warmth, which had always given her strength when she was troubled. She felt abandoned and defiled. She wore her nakedness like an accusation, clutching the rags around her body as if she was trying to hide a crime. And every few moments she would hear the ugly, triumphant yells, and the hideous thud of the hoes that were extinguishing her parishioners’ lives. She closed her eyes on her own darkness of the soul, and wept self-pitying tears.
She felt rather than saw the kindly presence kneeling beside her. She opened her eyes and focused on the wrinkled face of the village bonze, who was smiling at her out of the sunshine as he offered her his own saffron cloak. ‘I do not understand your religion,’ he said, ‘but I have never thought it was evil. Come, wrap yourself up. There are people who need you now, whom you can help before their long journey.’
She did meekly as she was told, tying the neck fastening of the long cloak with fumbling fingers. The priest gave her his own girdle, which, tightened, closed the cloak and ensured her modesty. She followed the bent figure across the square. A Boxer guard stood threateningly in front of them. The bonze waved him gently aside. ‘I am taking her to the hall where the others are,’ he told him. ‘I will be responsible for her.’
The guards at the door of the church were there to prevent people coming out not going in. ‘I must leave you here,’ said the bonze. ‘You have been hurt and confused, but you will know what to do when you get inside. And I will be lighting incense this evening and praying for a happy reincarnation for you and Mr Wang. You know, he was always my friend. We will perhaps meet again, beyond this sea of sorrow.’
Sister Elena nodded, and in her Buddhist cloak entered the church. It took some moments for her to adjust to the darkness, and for a moment she felt panicked by the wall of wailing that assailed her ears. She did not feel strong enough to cope. She was more conscious of her inadequacy than ever before. Then she began to distinguish figures in the dim light. She saw Mother Wang sitting on the bare stone floor, her eyes running with tears, her mouth opened and her face frozen in a mask of abandoned lament. Mary had buried her head in her lap, and her body was shaking with sobs. Little Martha was kneeling beside her, a desperate expression on her thin face, wanting to console her mother but not knowing how. Elena looked down the nave and saw other women she knew slumped in similar attitudes of grief and fear. There were a few men left in the church—mainly the elders, the young had been taken first—waiting their turn to be summoned. Some were kneeling on the ground in prayer. Others were slouched against the wall, gazing at their feet in blank despair. She heard another triumphant yell from the crowd outside and shortly afterwards two Boxers came in and, after looking round, selected one of the praying figures to drag away. A chorus of screams greeted his departure, fading again into the anonymous wail when the heavy doors banged shut again.
She felt a little hand grasp hers and saw Martha’s quizzical face looking up at her. ‘Oh, Auntie, what kept you away? We so missed you here.’
Elena reached for her and hugged her, tears welling in her own eyes as she buried her face in the child’s shoulder. For a while the two rocked together, sobbing silently.
‘They came to the house,’ said Martha, ‘and forced us to go with them to the square, and we saw Father … we saw Baba…’
‘I know, I know,’ whispered Elena, rocking her. ‘Don’t think of it. Not now.’
‘But they lied to us. They told us we were going to go away. That we were to leave the village, and we were to get our valuables and belongings. And then they just stole them and there was nothing we could do.’
‘I know,’ said Elena. ‘Don’t think of it, little one.’
‘But don’t you see? Don’t you see? What that awful man said about us Christians being witches. It’s got nothing to do with it. They’re just robbers, Auntie. They’re killing us only because they want to steal from us…’
Elena reached for the hot little face and kissed it. ‘Hush, my darling,’ she said. She felt another arm around her waist, and the lithe body of Mary was in her arms. She looked up, and saw other figures around her, expectant faces looking at her. The wailing had subsided a little as, one by one, the Christians in the church noticed that Sister Elena had returned.
Lao Yi, a farmer who had been one of the first in Bashu to befriend and be converted by Father Adolphus, was contemplating her with his honest features. ‘Elder Sister, is there anything that can be done to save us?’
‘Oh, Lao Yi, I don’t think so,’ said Elena, feeling her heart break a little.
‘I didn’t think so,’ he said. ‘I was never very clever, you know, and I couldn’t learn the scriptures. Father Adolphus was often angry with me for getting the stories wrong, but you can tell me, can’t you? There is a purpose to this? The Lord does have a purpose?’
‘Oh, yes, Lao Yi, the Lord always has a purpose,’ said Elena, trying to hold back her tears. ‘Even if we cannot understand what it is.’
Lao Yi nodded. ‘I thought so,’ he said. ‘Then everything’s fine, isn’t it? Elder Sister, I’m glad you’re with us at the end. Look,’ he paused shyly. ‘I know you’re not a father, or even a lay pastor like John, but I thought, maybe, you can lead us in a few prayers, or hymns. Some of us are quite frightened, you see, and there’s nothing like a hymn or a prayer, is there, to cheer you up?’
When the Boxers next came in they were surprised to see a woman in Buddhist robes standing at the altar, with the Christians kneeling in a half-circle around her. In a strong voice, she was reciting a prayer, the Magnificat, the others murmuring the words along with her. When the Boxers tapped Lao Yi on the shoulder, he stood up promptly, genuflected to the altar, and then, straightening his shoulders, walked
resolutely in front of them to the door. This time there were no screams or wails. The prayer continued to the end. Before the door closed, Lao Yi heard the first lines of a hymn, and as he stepped into the sunlight he began to sing in his rough, tuneless voice:
‘Yesu ai wo, wo zhidao
Shengjing shuoguo wo hen hao…’
‘Jesus loves me this I know
’Cos the Bible tells me so.’
Five more times the Boxers came in, and then all the men were gone. The women continued to sing, although many had tears running down their faces.
They were singing when the doors banged open and Ren Ren, flanked by his lieutenants, with Headman Yang and several villagers holding bloody hoes and pitchforks, strode into the church. Heads turned in fear, but Elena, her eyes fixed on Ren Ren, forced herself to continue, louder, defiantly, with the words of the psalm, and although there was faltering, the murmuring accompaniment continued. It happened to be the twenty-third Psalm, which Dr Airton had translated and for which Sister Caterina, who was talented in that way, had composed a catchy tune. As she sang the words she felt strength and a purpose she had thought she’d lost: ‘Yea though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil: For thou art with me; thy rod and thy staff they comfort me, Thou preparest a table before me in the presence of mine enemies…’
She held Ren Ren’s stare across the hall until he looked away. He laughed nervously. Then, winking at his companions, he began to clap his hands in ironic, slow applause, shouting, ‘Hao! Good!’ in parody of an audience expressing appreciation for fine singing at a performance of Chinese opera. Grinning, the others followed his lead. The singing wavered under the handclaps, and died, and the scared faces gazed as if hypnotised at the blood, which was dripping from the hoes.
Sister Elena was not to be deterred. She closed her eyes to steel herself and in a loud voice that somehow did not sound like her own she began to chant the Lord’s Prayer: ‘Our Father who art in heaven Hallowed be thy name Thy kingdom come…’
Ren Ren knew how to make his voice carry further.
‘The way these witches flaunt their incantations! They never give up, do they? It’s as if they’re asking to be burned. Well, isn’t that convenient? Because that’s exactly what we’ve come here to do.’
The meaning of his words did not sink in for a moment. Then one of the women screamed, and Elena’s prayer was drowned in a low moan that grew to a wail of terror.
Ren Ren, who knew he had command now, raised his hand. ‘Ladies, ladies,’ he said. ‘Please. We’re not going to burn all of you—well, not till we’ve had a bit of fun first. Don’t want to be wasteful, do we? Some of you we might not burn at all—if you’re good to us, that is.’
As he was speaking the other men were circling the women, who cowered as they passed. The reason why they had come here was clear to all now, and some of those with young daughters were attempting vainly to shield them from view. They were therefore the more easily spotted. With a leer one of the villagers with a hoe reached out, grabbed a girl of sixteen and pulled her from the clasping hands of her mother, who fell on her face, crying. Within minutes, ten or eleven girls were huddled where they had been thrown near the door. Still the men prowled.
One of the older girls—Sister Elena recognised her as the wife of the farmer, Zhang Aifan, who had been among the first men to be taken out and killed—threw herself forward and flung her arms around Ren Ren’s legs. ‘Take me,’ she squealed. ‘Take me. I’m not really a Christian. I don’t want to die.’
‘No, you’re ugly,’ said Ren Ren, and kicked her back into the circle. ‘Where’s that one I saw earlier, the pink thing? Ah, there you are.’
With a shock Sister Elena realised that he was looking at Mary, who had pressed herself up against her mother. With a pang in her heart, she saw that the young girl’s eyes were wide with terror. She realised she had to do something. She knew that it would be useless but she could not stand by and let Pastor John’s daughter be taken and dishonoured—but Martha moved first. A small erect figure, eyes blazing, she stood with her fists raised in front of Ren Ren. ‘You’re not taking my sister!’ she said, in a high, clear voice. ‘She’s going to be a nun.’
Several of the men laughed, but Ren Ren was contemplating her, smiling, appraising her. ‘What a brave one,’ he said. ‘I’ve a good mind to have you as well. You’ll grow into a nice chicken in a couple of years. She’ll be good for the virgin trade, don’t you think, Monkey? Take her for me, will you?’
As Monkey reached to grab her, Martha bit his hand. He roared with pain, plucked his knife from his belt and slit her throat from ear to ear. ‘Sorry, Ren Ren,’ he said, wiping her blood from his tunic, ‘but that hurt.’
‘No!’ Sister Elena screamed. She was running down the nave and saw Monkey reach for his knife, and Martha’s quizzical eyes, calm, frowning a little as she fell. She realised that she was too late, but her anger propelled her forward. Ren Ren had taken Mary from her mother and was dangling her by her waist, her legs kicking. He and Monkey saw the nun coming at them at the same time. Elena threw herself at Monkey, her nails scratching for his face. Instinctively he stabbed upwards with his knife, before her weight and the force of her rush knocked him off his feet. As he rolled away from her, his knife remained buried in her upper chest.
She lay on her back, bewildered, numbness spreading over her breast and into her arms and legs. She heard the gurgling sound of her own breathing, and from afar the peevish voice of that man, that horrible man: ‘What’s the matter with you, Monkey? That’s two of my chickens you’ve killed. You’re a fucking turtle’s egg. That’s what you are. Did you know that?’ Language, she thought idly, what terrible language; Father Adolphus would not approve. Above her she saw Mary’s face, hanging strangely in the air above her. She saw the shocked expression on the girl’s face, and tried to form words to comfort her; she felt her lips move but she thought that she might only have achieved a smile. Then she felt a crashing blow on her stomach, and her head seemed to explode. Everything went dark.
* * *
Ren Ren had dropped Mary, who whimpered in a huddle in the middle of a big pool of blood on the floor. He was standing with his hands on his hips looking at two villagers, who were proudly pulling a pitchfork out of the dead nun’s belly and a hoe from the remains of her skull. One of them was giggling stupidly, the other whooping triumphantly.
‘Fucking peasants,’ he said, shaking his head. Then he gave orders for the girls who had been chosen for the men’s pleasure to be taken outside, for the doors to be barred, and for the building to be set alight. As the first flames began to lick up the side of the church, and the sound of women’s screams reached a crescendo inside, he wondered how they would transport back to Shishan the goods that his men had started to bring out of the Christians’ houses.
* * *
All was quiet at the Airtons’ mission. A sliver of moon revealed itself for a moment as the clouds parted, and a pale light illuminated the room at the end of the corridor where a girl lay bound to a bed. The room stank. By the head of the bed was a bucket half full of vomit. Soon Sister Caterina would take it out and change it but she was occupied for now with bundling the diarrhoea-stained sheets she had just removed from the bed into a basket. Helen Frances was naked. All her nightdresses were soiled, and there was a stain on her white thigh where she had not yet been sponged. In a chair the doctor dozed, exhaustion making him oblivious of the animal grunts and snarls that, for the last five hours, his patient had been emitting through clenched teeth as she rolled and strained against the ropes. The moonlight revealed her staring eyes, which, fixed unblinkingly open, seemed focused on nothing, unless they were gazing inwards into whatever delirious dreams were shaking and tormenting the body on the bed. Only occasionally consciousness would appear to return to them, but then they would clench shut as the unbearable pain in legs and arms would arch the body upwards. When Caterina saw this she would stop what she was do
ing, and hold Helen Frances’s head, steering it to the bucket, for the vomiting inevitably followed these attacks. It was a sort of routine, which the doctor, the nun and, when she could spare the time, Nellie had become used to over the last day and night. And somewhere, hovering between dream and wakefulness, the mind that was Helen Frances’s, struggled to understand what was happening to her and to overcome the hatred she felt for her tormentors, and even more for herself.
* * *
Two days later Frank Delamere was sitting in a restaurant with his merchant friends, Lu Jincai and Jin Shangui. Ever since he had heard about the mysterious disappearance of old Tang Dexin, and the rumours that he had been a black society member and an associate of Iron Man Wang, Lu had dropped his suspicions of Jin, and some of their old intimacy had been restored. The food, as usual, was delicious but Frank found his two friends tense. They had been plying him with questions about his and the doctor’s interview with the Mandarin, which had taken place that morning.
‘Well, it was all a bit strange,’ said Frank, helping himself to another cup of hot rice wine. ‘Certainly the doctor thought so, and he’s attended many more of these audiences than I have. Normally, apparently, the doctor’s used to seeing the Mandarin alone in his private rooms, but this time we were taken to the main audience hall, which was an intimidating place. And there were a lot of unsavoury characters hanging about whom the doctor hadn’t seen before. Quite unlike the sleek-looking officials you’re used to seeing in the yamen. It was all very odd.’
Jin and Lu exchanged glances. ‘Can you tell us who they were?’ asked Lu quietly.
‘Haven’t a clue. Rough-looking fellows, one or two in sheepskins, lounging against the wall as if they owned the place. One of them, would you believe it? was picking his teeth with his knife. And the guards just ignored him!’
The Palace of Heavenly Pleasure Page 47
