by Paul Yee
We itched to wager money on who would die first. Only time stood between one of us and death. Twenty-eight coolies tramped into the forest each day, so the odds, plus the size of the pot, were good. Then some cockhead whispered, “What if the man’s ghost claims a share of the prize? What if his ghost climbs onto the winner’s back for eternity?”
We dropped our axes and saws and turned to the safety of dice and dominoes.
Pig Boy died on a grey afternoon, dank and dim as any day in our outdoor prison. The forest hid the sky and screened the light. Treetops were unseen until they landed and we gathered at their feet like gloating hunters. Steady rain fell. A roof of leaves shielded us, but the damp caused axes and saws to stick. The chuk, chuk, chuk of blades chipped off thin wedges. Long saws grated through trees, bleeding them of sawdust that coated the ground in bright yellow. When the whistle announced a break, we heard whining insects and distant blasting.
On our first day, we got two orders. First, every tree must fall away from the railway path. Crew Boss looked at a map and thrust out his arms. He yelled at Bookman, who dragged a pair of men to each tree caught in the boss’s sightline. We cut notches to mark the way our cuts should topple. Once a tree fell, we sawed off just enough of its trunk to make way for the path. The rest of the tower stayed as it had fallen. We stood in awe of tree trunks wider than we were tall.
The second order?
“Shout when a tree falls and look up when you hear the warning.”
Too bad the noisy forest muffled human voices. Our shouts drowned under the din of axes and saws. No tree fell cleanly. It toppled neighbours and, like a barber’s blade, sheared off branches blocking its way.
On Pig Boy’s last day, Monkey and Long Life’s tree tilted into a neighbour and stayed standing.
“Those two trees are old lovers,” Four Square chuckled. “Let them be.”
Monkey and Long Life cursed the giant’s great weight and chopped at the second one.
Poy and I looked at each other. Those louts deserved to be slowed down. Monkey was keeping count of who cut down the most trees. His own name, of course, was always at the top of the list. Long Life labelled Poy and me as “big girls” for being last to fell our first tree, despite having strong arms. But our tower had been fatter than anyone else’s. Seven or eight men with arms linked couldn’t have circled its base.
Monkey’s trapped tree gave way with a sharp crack and slid as if greased. No one got warned.
Pig Boy was crushed under the trunk, face down, flattened over a pointed stump. Sawdust soaked up the blood. When Crew Boss and Bookman said he was dead, his workmate ran to wash his hands. He had touched Pig Boy, checking for life.
Big trouble had arrived: we didn’t have women to death wail or experts to conduct a funeral. This was the second year of the railway, yet no one had rules for dealing with the killing airs.
Crew Boss and Bookman pestered High Hat, back and forth in English and Chinese. Crew Boss relied on Bookman, a China man handy with languages. He in turn begged help from High Hat, Elder of the brotherhood. Pig Boy was a member, and High Hat spoke for all the crew, even though only a third were brothers.
I could hardly hold my glee; the brothers were going to lose face. They had long taunted us non-members as failures at saving money.
“Look at us, we pool cash to buy candles and laundry soap.”
“Follow us, we go to town together to get a discount from the barber.”
“We each take a turn to wash the group’s laundry so that the others can rest.”
We non-brothers awoke late on rest days and each man scrubbed his own clothes, if at all. Those giddy housewives wanted to turn copper into gold, so like the women fussing at home, they should have known all about killing airs.
There, villagers shooed children and livestock away from the tainted house. They slammed doors shut while someone raced to get coffin, corpse handlers, and funeral master. They hung a big lantern at the village entrance and lit it at night, telling strangers to stay away. The dark side of death had to be addressed by rules, and quickly too.
Could that be done here? Key to the rituals was the dead man’s kinsfolk, but they were far away. Family was vital; those people couldn’t be replaced by cheerful men who went around calling each other “brother.” Dubbing dog meat “mutton” didn’t improve its taste.
The brotherhood had formed as soon as we were shoved into gangs. That day, boatloads of coolies reached Yale. Sweaty redbeards unloaded crates from scows and steamers. Cows clattered down a gangplank so sodden that they squealed and slid into the water. Horses reared up, shaking shaggy manes, as handlers tugged at them. My crew got its marching orders, but men rushed off to bid farewell to fellow travellers and visit Chinese stores and Native vendors. The contract promised meals, but no one trusted the document. When Bookman found us, only the brotherhood men were there, all from around the river port of Sim Hoi. It took Bookman an angry hour to round up the stragglers, after which we marched for half a day under a hot sun before being allowed to sit and rest.
Each morning the brothers were first to want to trek into the forest. Extra sleep didn’t concern them. They shouldered axes and saws and toted cloth-wrapped bowls of food. They obeyed all orders, no matter how stupid. In return, Bookman gave them the posts of Head Cook and Second Cook. The brothers got not only better food but also hot water for soaking their feet. When we complained, Head Cook claimed the brotherhood was paying for the heated water. I sided with the losers who had touted Old Skinny for cook. We had pitied his weakness for opium.
At last Crew Boss stomped away from the corpse, leaving behind the two Chinese headmen. Anxious workers squatted on the rank, soggy floor of the clearing. A knot slid up and down High Hat’s scrawny throat.
“We all know that such matters must follow the proper order. If not, our friend and brother will not pass smoothly on his way. With what little we have here, we must do our best to soothe and settle him. After all, everyone wants our friend to watch over and protect us while we are far from home.”
The dark and clammy yin side of the forest smothered us. Our eyes were swarmed by clouds of mosquitoes that no smoky fire could evict. Prickly bushes clawed at our legs while soft mud swallowed our boots. We yearned for a bright, solid worksite open to the healing wind and sun. At the nearby lake, we held our breath and tiptoed around lean-tos made from tree-fibre mats. Woven cords hung from tent pole to tent pole. We never saw any Native people. Any coolie who was sent to the lake to fill our drinking pails pleaded for an escort, fearing water spirits and Native people, human or other-worldly.
“Four men are needed,” High Hat said, “to break that tree and free our brother. Then they will carry him home to camp. There are no corpse handlers to hire here, so our brotherhood will pay for four helpers. The payment confirms the business nature of the handling, and will protect those men from any killing airs. They will dig a grave, wash the body, carry it to the site, and complete the burial. Who will help?”
“Shouldn’t the Company pay?” asked Little Touch.
“The agent said bodies would be sent home,” said Four Square, “so that family members would see that their men hadn’t been sold as piglets.”
“We can discuss that later.” High Hat lowered his voice. “Our brother should not hear us argue here.”
No one volunteered. We didn’t have rock for brains. Pig Boy had just died. His soul hovered nearby. He could hardly be happy, cut from life so suddenly, having just ended a stomach-rolling ocean trip of thirty days. His family in China was waiting for money. This death wasn’t timely at all.
The brothers shrank back from tending their own, yet were too proud to walk away. No man wanted a sullen corpse to suck away his yang, his vital essence, and leave him open to illness and death. What did those cheeky fellows say now about the need to help each other while far from home? How were they going to show the barbaric redbeards that China men always rose above hardships in refined and superior ways?
The silence dragged on.
“High Hat, we don’t see you raising your hand,” Four Square pointed out.
“The longer that tree sits on our friend,” he said, “the greater the danger to us.”
“I wouldn’t touch that dirty thing even if you gave me a pound of gold,” said Salty-Wet.
“Hok and Poy,” said Shorty, “you two bastards should help. Atone for all the people you killed. Regain the honour you lost.”
“I told you,” I said. “We never killed anyone.”
“Who believes a bandit?”
At a recent meal, I had joined some men chatting about Centipede Mountain and spoken too much about its hidden trails and shortcuts. Shorty, much smarter than I had thought, heard me and asked how I came to know those long hills. After all, wasn’t my village located far away?
“Hauled loads through the region,” I replied.
“Liar! Bandits ruled Centipede Mountain,” said Shorty. “I know you. Your gang raided my village. We fought and killed one of you.”
I stated Grandfather’s good name and demanded proof from Shorty, but he insisted that I knew far too much about the region.
Damn my itchy mouth. I had only wanted to make new friends. Poy was tagged as my partner in crime.
I appealed to the crewmen. “When there is no rice, children still must eat. Can anyone here swear to Heaven that no one in his family ever stole?”
The brothers accused me of blackening everyone’s name. But we all knew from experience that bandit gangs never had trouble recruiting new members. Of course my co-workers had spent time among robber bands. We all came from wretched backgrounds; we all faced the lack and losses that Heaven cast upon us. Few people dared to be as self-righteous as Shorty.
Each crewman knew war and hunger as surely as his own name. The Guest Wars forced my village to flee to the hills. Armed bands crisscrossed the counties, burning crops and seizing livestock, smashing docks and bridges. Walled villages were set ablaze as clouds of black smoke turned day into night. Grandmother and Mother huddled with us children, beseeching Heaven and the ancestors for help. Before this turmoil, the Red Scarf bandits had rebelled against the emperor and demanded food from everyone.
“Guard your back,” Shorty warned me. “You set the shed on fire, so the oxen ran. You killed the boy guarding the rice. You threw a net over our chickens and carried them off.”
“You have eyes that can see in the dark?” I asked. “You must see ghosts too!”
I confessed nothing and he proved even less. My gang had raided villages now and then, but only ones that were poorly defended. We attacked mostly merchant convoys.
After this, I had kept far away from cockhead Shorty, at camp and in the forest.
“Let me move Pig Boy.” California’s face was grim, darker than usual. He gave everyone a pained look. “One day, you might do the same for me.”
High Hat beamed. California was the only man who had worked in Gold Mountain before, in America. He had walked 800 miles to this job, but so far, hadn’t spoken more than twenty words to anyone. A relaxed air hung around him; his clothes were well-worn while all of us were stiff in starch-hardened denim pants. His shirt buttons were flat painted wood; ours were coiled from cloth tubing. He knew English but never argued with Crew Boss.
High Hat egged us on, saying, “Be kind, receive kindness.”
Old South stepped forward. He and Old North had been coolies in South Ocean, in Malaya. They sneered that railway work was child’s play compared to tin mines. Their pigtails were dry and brittle; any touch caused bits of hair to flake off.
“You see?” High Hat waggled his finger. “Men who have worked abroad, they know very well that China men must unite and take care of each other. We must learn from them.”
Old North cursed and stalked to the back. On the first night of camp, he had denounced the younger crew members. At dinner call, they rushed into the cooking tent while Old North tried to stop them. “At my home,” he said, “elders always go first. Isn’t it so in your village?”
The young men paid him no attention until High Hat stepped in.
The cheerless brothers scratched itches and bites and looked away, their motto of “mutual help lifts everyone” all but forgotten.
At last High Hat broke the circle of shame and offered himself. It was the only way to attract another brother to help. He glared at his men and said, “Just one more fellow is needed.”
“Me,” said Poy.
I pulled him aside and hissed, “We’re going to America! If we stay, we will die.”
“Will you do my funeral?”
“I could die first. Remember how one man ruined my people?”
“The Five Tigers?”
“You’re going to thrust something dirty into the soil. You think earth spirits here don’t mind?”
“We’re respecting the dead. What god would disapprove?” He walked away.
A hundred years ago, our clan had raided a no-name village. We expected its people to flee. But they stood their ground, armed with axes, pitchforks, and magic charms worn at the neck. They suffered the bullying of bigger villages because their small number had chosen to stay and protect an ancient god. Then their god regained its power. In that raid, a Yang man purposely stomped on one of the god’s charms. At that very moment, the battle changed course: our raid leader was fatally stabbed. Soon the Five Tigers fields that once enriched the Yang clan passed into the hands of the no-name. It was all blamed on that one fool.
The no-names were renowned now but no Yang man ever spoke their name aloud. We kowtowed to them and donated prizes to their festivals and cash to their temple no matter how our harvest fared. When they paraded their patron god through our village, crowing all the while, we served them choice snacks. Anyone who refused got cut off from trading at the market. If they walked into a crowded teahouse, then we gulped our food and gave up our seats and tables. Redbeard bullies here were nothing new to me.
“Back to work, all of you!” Bookman shouted. “We can manage this.”
As Poy left with High Hat, the older man clapped his back. “You and me, we will help this man and then fly through the skies with the Immortals.”
The crewmen hurried away, glad the matter was settled. They were rarely so keen to grab their saws and axes. When the light caught their steel for a moment, a glimmer brightened the forest.
Old North pulled me along. “Screw those two, let them go. If they want to do noble deeds, then let them die noble deaths.”
With my teeth, I cinched a strip of cloth around my blistered hands. I should have thumped Poy’s head with an axe. Coming to Gold Mountain was my idea; therefore I decided the big moves. When Poy had fretted about going abroad, I explained the contract and told him not to worry. Now we couldn’t sneak off to America: killing airs raised the risk of misfortune.
“Is he your brother?” Old North referred to both family and clan.
“Friend.”
“But you know words. Shouldn’t he listen to you?”
“He’s older.”
“Everyone should have someone watching over him.”
“I take care of myself!”
We tested the two-man saw, but then Old North pulled and pushed too fast.
“Slower!” I shouted. “No need to die for the redbeards.”
At the start of work, we had been too eager to show our mettle to Crew Boss. We made the long saws sing but crippled ourselves with blisters and aching backs. Next day we slowed down.
I looked through the trees. Poy should be strolling over, a sheepish look on his stupid face. He should regain his senses and avoid the corpse. That bumpkin needed prudent guidance, all the time. Me, I had gone to school for a few years.
We had met on Centipede Mountain. I was new to the bandits, whose youngest member was Shrimp Boy, a vicious thug of thirteen, younger than me. Gang leader Cudgel was a filthy lout with a fiery temper and rusty but lethal halberd. Shrimp Boy scouted out targets an
d didn’t back off from missions that Cudgel deemed too risky. He chafed under Cudgel’s rule and vented his anger on me. I had to empty twenty men’s shit and piss each day and then wash the buckets with creek water. That was Shrimp Boy’s job, but he lorded over newcomers. Only Poy helped me carry the stinking pails beyond the range of the men’s noses. Even then, he never said much.
For my first time at the brothel, Poy found me a pretty girl, guaranteed to be clean. I returned many times to her.
At the opium house, Poy watched that I never smoked a second pipe, no matter what discount the boss offered. I did the same for Poy.
After the bandit gang fell apart, we always met at the day’s end to share the food we had scrounged.
On payday in Canada, I checked Poy’s earnings. He couldn’t read and didn’t know his numbers. The first time I got paid, I accused Bookman of stealing. I received a total of $6.73 for twenty-six days of work. I had figured three times that amount. Then Bookman listed the costs for rent, food, and ship’s passage, plus payment for boots, blanket, and hat.
Right away I warned the men that no one would ever get rich here.
“You think saving money is easy?” they scoffed. “You need to suffer.”
When I urged Poy to sneak off to America, he shrugged. “They’ll break your leg.”
Company guards in every town watched the docks. We had heard that any coolie caught running away got a crushing whack on the knee.
“I could break my leg strolling through the forest,” I said. “You too.”
“We owe money.”
“Screw the Company. Only in America will we get rich.”
In China, returnees loudly touted America with the vigor of roadside vendors peddling noodles and fresh fruit at day’s end. American towns and cities with tall buildings and fancy mansions offered plenty of jobs. Workers stayed clean and dry inside machine-driven factories. On wide flat roads, people drove their own horse-drawn carriages. A thousand times more people lived there than in Canada, it was said, and America’s great railway had been laid a decade ago, so its people had been starting businesses and getting rich there for over ten years.
