by Paul Yee
“You didn’t go to America. You should be rich by now.”
“That route went downriver, to the coast,” he said after a moment. “Much too close to China. Only cowards went home so quickly.”
“I would have rushed to America.”
“Why didn’t you?”
I shrugged and asked about his opium habit. He declared that he had quit, so I told him about Shorty, who was smoking more and more. Bookman noted the weekly amount of opium that Shorty’s wages could cover, and asked the clerk at the company store to limit his purchases to that. The clerk refused.
Shorty was angry enough to spit teeth. The pains had worsened and he needed more black mud to gain any relief. Number Two urged the store to stop selling it to Shorty, to leave him no option but to go home. Again the clerk refused.
Shorty wheedled cash from everyone, like a peddler on a busy street.
“It’s the first of the month,” he trumpeted, even though no one followed the calendar. “It’s the God of War’s birthday. It’s the ascension of Heavenly Empress. Good deeds today attract sacred favour and reduce your suffering in the eighteen levels of Hell.”
Poy and Onion were two of the few men to give Shorty cash. Others, like me, refused to give him anything at all.
The furnace at the tunnel mouth fed only one machine drill, so we still used hand tools at the rock face. Before the machine drills were brought in, smoke and dust from each round of blasting settled to the ground between blasts. Now dust spurted out all day long, fogging the air and the low glow of lamps. Grit coated our tongues and chafed our noses. We tied wet cloths over our noses and mouths. My cough worsened. The only mercy was this: machine drilling sped up the work and led to frequent breaks when the ladders and scaffolds were removed for the blasting.
The bosses pushed us to go faster. They brought in wheelbarrows, but the ground was too rough for the narrow wheels. They lay down long planks, but the boards tipped and cracked and then the wheelbarrows spilled. The tunnel grew longer, so we trudged farther and farther with our loads of debris. The bosses clapped each other’s backs with delight when they started a night shift, claiming that the men in the tunnel already worked in darkness. But a lack of moonlight outside stopped us from seeing the way to the dump.
Poy told me to quit and head to America.
“Haven’t you heard?” I wanted to strangle him. “There are no jobs. It’s too late.”
“Here you will cough until you’re fragrant.”
“Takes money to get to America,” I said hopefully.
“All my cash goes to the big cannons.”
We worked side by side but followed different friends. I spent time with Onion, Little Touch, and others. Poy sat with the older crewmen: Four Square, Old North, Old South, and sometimes Shorty. They played dominoes without betting cash and shared their whisky. They relived battles from the Red Scarf Rebellion and the Guest Wars. Poy had little to say about those events but sat among the old fellows, hoping to absorb some of their wisdom, and trying to build up his own store of virtue by meeting their need for a patient audience. Keenly aware that their deaths might happen at any moment, those men wanted someone young to hear them out before it was too late.
After a second machine drill was added to the pipes, twice the amount of noise and dust filled the tunnel. The amount of falling ceiling also increased. Men worried that the redbeards were shaking the mountain too much, unfairly gaining the upper hand by melding the elements of Fire, Metal, and Air to hurl against the rock. You couldn’t chisel at the feet of a mountain without causing its head to shake in disgust. We took to wearing metal buckets over our skulls. We poked the ceiling with long poles to dislodge loose pieces. Old South was carried out one day after workers fell over him and screamed, thinking him a corpse. Number Two was knocked down too and hobbled around on a scarred knee. It was just a matter of time before a massive fall of rock.
Bookman brought us a proposal. A team of Chinese workers was drilling from the other end of the mountain. They had two machine drills too. He proposed a contest. The bosses would measure the daily progress made by each team. After a month, the team that gained the greatest distance would win a cash prize. I thought the opportunity was clearly useful, but our crew split into two factions.
“The faster we run in the dark, the less safe it is,” said Poy.
“We came to earn money,” countered Number Two. “Now they offer more cash and you say no.”
“This is a ploy to push us harder; we run fast enough already.”
“The lazy ones need incentives. Their people at home will benefit.”
“They treat us like squawking cocks thrown into a fighting ring.”
“Even if we don’t win, it doesn’t matter. The Company won’t penalize us.”
“Don’t know that for sure, do you? What if the prize for the winners comes from the losers? This is a wager, like any other game.”
In the end, Number Two told Bookman “no,” because those crewman who were willing to work harder clearly saw that they wouldn’t get a larger portion of the prize over their lazier friends. Bookman cursed and stalked away. A chance to make more money was welcome, but even I could not stomach having co-workers yell at me to go faster.
Then Onion pulled me away to talk in private.
“A big Native family travels to a wedding on the American side of the border,” he said. “Men and women, old folks, and young children are going. They are taking gifts, and riding horses and wagons. You can wear their clothes, hide your pigtail under a hat, and walk with them to America.”
“You’re Shorty’s friend. Why help me?”
“We eat better now.”
“Won’t they slit my throat in the night?”
“These are trusted customers.”
I didn’t sleep that night. Sojourners couldn’t squat and do nothing. That was like telling a man not to fight the blazing fire that was gutting his house while family members ran out with precious belongings. Men worked abroad but rooted their children in China. They enlarged their landholdings so everywhere the bamboo flourished. But sadly, there wasn’t ever enough money. Families grew larger. The harvest was poor. A man with a barren wife needed a second one. Bandits attacked with greater daring. Land taxes went up. Orchards and dikes were swept away by the wind and waves of typhoons.
Sojourners were every clan’s trusted hope, but if a man failed, it was his own fault. Kinsmen could rally and help, but they stumbled too. Those who depended on you, they called you kin and brother, they labelled you dependable, as heart and head to one shared body. They were always glad to raise bowls of warmed wine to toast you. When far away, when you couldn’t look at the autumn moon without weeping; when kinfolk feasted and you were alone, you longed for their praise.
In America, I would be better placed to help Younger Sister, but only if there was work. I had no capital to start my own business. What if I couldn’t learn English? When I was jobless in China, each night I wondered whether I would be eating or starving, laughing or weeping the next day; my worries kept me awake and praying, left me even more tired and wasted for the morning’s search for work. It took me until the end of the next day before I said no to Onion.
At the end of a day, the men dropped their empty baskets by the tunnel mouth and hurried back to get warm in the cooking tent. Autumns were never this cold in China, and the men complained of having to buy gloves and thicker coats. Bookman pointed to Four Square and me. “Go help the redbeards bring out the drills.”
They never left the machines inside during night, for fear that falling rock might damage them. Company engineers were always fiddling with the machines, peering at valves, and writing notes.
Four Square headed into the tunnel as I was pouring water. It was still lukewarm. Onion ran by and tapped my arm. “You drink, I’ll go!”
Everyone was keen and curious about the drills. One friendly redbeard had given Long Life a chance to push it into the wall, and he emerged beaming, as pr
oud as the father of a newborn son. Now each crewman wanted to go home and brag about pushing the drill into solid rock, piercing it like chopsticks thrusting through tofu, like pressing one’s stiff cock into a mountain suddenly turned fleshy. The men wanted to coax the power of a blazing furnace in their hands.
Four Square and a redbeard carried out the first drill and its hoses. The other blaster was drilling holes so that he could light the fuses next morning without waiting for the furnace and compressor to start. Too bad his generous work attitude wasn’t rewarded with good luck.
Thunder rumbled from the tunnel as the ground shook. Storm clouds of dust whirled out, choking those at the tunnel mouth. Men ran, some toward the tunnel and others away from it. They shouted for bosses, Heaven, and friends.
Shorty crouched and bent over, his head to the ground, wailing for his friend. He had seen Onion take my place.
Bookman did a roll call, to see who else might be inside the tunnel. Our crew pressed in as Shorty pointed a trembling finger at me.
“Hok should be dead! I saved him once before. Today he switched places with Onion. That bandit killed my people. He deserves to die.”
“No one has run off yet!” I protested. “I’m no bandit. If I was, then Heaven would have sent me into the tunnel.”
Number Two ordered Shorty back to camp. It was time for his daily dose of opium.
Men shook their heads in disbelief to hear how Onion had run by and traded places at the very last moment. They also stood away, afraid to get too close to me. If Onion was dead, then I had been the last one to touch him, perhaps the one who had cast the curse of death on him. At least Shorty the mosquito was swatted and smeared by this disaster. I prayed for Onion to be alive, if only to save myself from his angry ghost.
When it was safe to enter the tunnel, our torches lit up a massive hole in the ceiling. The mountain had let its gut plunge like a mother releasing multiple births. Its core was as hollow as the inside of a fine porcelain statue. The debris was too close to the rock face for there to be good news about Onion and the blaster. We shouted for them, but got no reply.
Workers started to clear the debris that very night. They re-stoked the still-hot furnace and brought the first machine drill back into use. Shorty came to help, moaning that no man was a better friend than Onion. We brought out the rubble and dumped it nearby. Bookman reminded us it would have to be moved away later. As night fell, the bosses set up lanterns near the tunnel mouth. They, of course, needed a quick salvage in order to speed up our return to work.
I squatted for a rest and Shorty joined me. I wanted to edge away but to retreat was cowardly. It would give satisfaction to Shorty. I braced myself for savage words.
“Your lifeline contains luck, Yang Hok,” he said. “The militia that killed your bandit friends failed to capture you. You went to prison but returned alive. The sickness that killed Monkey left you a bundle of bones, yet you regained your health.”
“I’m lucky?” I snorted. “Then why do I squat here with you?”
We both started coughing.
“Heaven protects you.”
“Then stop accusing me.”
“I will. I want you to kill me.”
“You’re crazy.”
“I wanted to go home and tell everyone that you died here in agony. But pain plagues me instead.”
“I could die tomorrow, even tonight.”
“I talk about me!” He seized my arm. “Let people think I died by Heaven’s will. Smother me in my bed. I won’t resist.”
“I can give you money,” I said. No doubt he feared losing Onion’s gifts, which had let him buy opium.
“Do this, and my ghost will spare you. Refuse, and you will never have peace again. You owe me. You owe me a dozen lives.”
“You are insane.” I hurried away. Last time he said it was six lives. My sweat chilled me. The night had never felt so cold. Shorty was a madman. He still believed I was his enemy the bandit. He had longed for my death, but now he wanted me to deliver it to him. He was using his pain, his injury to doom me to hell. Why didn’t he ask Poy for help? He was a bandit too. Maybe the gods were punishing Shorty for some crime that he had kept hidden.
Four Square came and threw a blanket over my shoulders. Workers were preparing for a long night ahead. “Heaven watches over you,” he said.
“You too,” I replied. “You got out just in time.”
“Shall we make some money?” He bent close. “When news of this spreads up and down the line, workers will clamour for your protection, for a piece of your luck. Let’s make paper charms and sell them!”
I shook my head. “There’s no priest or temple to bless them.”
“Get ink and press your thumb mark on squares of yellow paper, then we fold them up and sell them in town.”
“Men aren’t stupid. They want proof the charm works.”
“Someone will tell a story, sooner or later.”
He was right. “What’s in this for you?”
“You can’t do this alone.”
I began to see the potential. “If only more men had seen Onion switching places with me.”
“Those are your best salesmen.”
“We tell people to wear it at their necks or burn it and swallow the ashes.”
Next day, we made our first sales at our own camp, using gentle tones to tout our sacred product. Later, as we reckoned how much paper, ink, and string to buy, and how fast we needed to make the charms, Poy stormed up. “Can’t you do better than fleece your workmates?”
“I help them.”
“When the mountain kills, nothing stops it.”
“I survived two tunnel collapses.”
“How did you get Shorty on your side?”
“Gave him a charm for free.”
“That rock brain said you were protected in prison by the gods, so I asked him why you landed there in the first place, if you were so lucky. Then he said you survived the illness, so I asked him why you even got sick. After all, half of the crew escaped illness. You could have worked all that time.”
“The gods were testing me.”
Poy laughed as he turned away. “If you want to be the chosen one, then go ahead. The bosses will send you into the dark tunnel whenever they can’t see clearly.”
Clearing the tunnel took three days. The stench of the rotting bodies was terrible. Poy asked me to help move the corpse. “If Onion blames you for his death, then you can redeem yourself.”
I shook my head. “What if he wants to trade places with me again?”
Onion had given Bookman money for his own service. He was the only crewman who could afford it. There was lucky cash to hand out after the funeral, but not a single crewman attended it. There were hefty amounts to pay Poy, Old South, Little Touch, and Number Two to bury his body in the woods. I got paid to carve his name and home village onto a plank. Only then did I learn his real name: Choy Ming Chung, “Bright Pine.” I cut deeply into the wood, drawing each stroke with rounded bumps and smooth tapers so that each word looked like brushwork.
On the day of the funeral, Number Two ran to me as we workers returned to camp.
“Poy got burnt. Badly.”
He lay on the ground in the sick tent, shuddering and moaning as his eyes flicked open and shut. When his face, throat, and body had been set aflame, his clothing melted into him. The skin was seared red and dry in spots; elsewhere it was charred leather. Pus oozed from dish-sized blisters.
“Get a blanket,” I said. “He’s cold.”
“I covered him,” Head Cook said, “but he started sweating.
“I’ll run to town for ointment,” I said.
Number Two shook his head, stating that burns were hard to heal. He told us what happened: “We started the cleansing fire. We started to burn Onion’s things, his clothes, blanket, wooden pillow, and chopsticks. Poy brought out Onion’s stock of liquor and squatted by the fire. He was happy to destroy it. He opened two bottles, clear as water. He sniffed
them and made a face. ‘We should have poured this over his grave,’ he called out. ‘No animals would dare dig at his flesh.’ He chuckled and tilted the bottles into the fire. Whoosh! Flames raced up the streams like mice running on ropes and ba-lam! The bottles exploded into Poy. He fell back, screaming. His skin and clothes and hair were burning. He slapped at his face and eyes. I ran for a blanket to muffle the flames, but when I lifted it, his skin came away too.”
Next morning, a hard scab covered much of Poy’s burns. More skin seemed to have been lost. He couldn’t talk or swallow.
“That’s good, isn’t it?” I asked. “The scab means he is healing, no?”
I ran to town for ointment but the clerk frowned and said, “Don’t waste your money. Heal an injury but not a destiny.”
Shorty brought his lamp and cooked opium. Head Cook stood nearby with a bowl of soup and a spoon. Poy couldn’t lie sideways to smoke but Shorty pushed the pipe into his mouth, covered it with a blanket, and pinched his nose, forcing him to inhale. When he stood to leave the tent, I said to him, “On Centipede Mountain, Poy never killed anyone.”
“And you?” he asked.
“Doesn’t matter what I say. You won’t believe me.”
I sat with Poy all night, trying to recall how Mother had sought favours from the Goddess of Mercy or the Heavenly Empress. She promised to fast for days, chant sutras, or release caged birds. I had nothing to trade for Poy’s life, no riches, no prayers, not even promises. I got very sick once, and Mother took a bowl of hot rice, covered with a cloth, and rubbed it over my face and head. I remembered her calling out, “If this sickness came in through the mouth, then let it leave through the mouth and enter this bowl of rice. If it came through the nose, then let it leave through the nose and enter this bowl of rice.” Then she took the bowl outside and emptied the rice into the gutter. She never did this for my brother and sister.
Poy died three days later.
I left the tent and heard Long Life say to someone, “Look how he died. Wasn’t a work accident. He touched all those dirty things, so of course he died during a funeral. That’s why men avoid those events.”
