by Paul Yee
“You’re not the boss!” he snapped.
I folded my lips in to keep quiet.
The town broke apart at the edge of the forest where the wagon road and railway emerged. We avoided the trees that hid nosy spies and climbed the ridge over the river. Fishermen had driven a line of wooden stakes into the water and now men crouched on shore with spears and nets. The roiling river thrashed the bushy tree branches tied to the stakes. Many times Sam and I had seen men in the middle of the river replacing the branches, but I never asked about them.
“Know what that is?” Fist pointed. “Branches churn the water into foam so that fish can’t see the net.”
“But their eyes are on the side, not the front.”
We stood like mourners at a funeral.
“You changed your mind about One Leg and No Brain,” I said.
He spat out brown tobacco juice. “One Leg had many chances to leave. This is my big opportunity.”
“Now you trust me?”
“The man I wanted, he left town. He got lucky at the game table.”
“My boy and I are going to China.”
“You saw the Company bigwig in Lytton, no?” Fist grabbed my arm. “He arrived here yesterday, and tomorrow he takes the train to Yale. The station master’s cook heard them talking.”
“You told him everything?”
“I’m not stupid!”
A sudden whistle raked the air. An eagle with a white head and white tail feathers plunged from a high branch and spread its wings. It swooped to the river, legs outstretched, talons open, then hung in the air between sky and water with no effort at all. The fishermen shouted and pointed. The bald eagle flew away without a fish, cawing with sharp, shrill sounds, as though annoyed. I recalled Grandmother telling me that once she had seen a black eagle fly off with an entire nest of baby birds in its clutch.
Fist’s gaze followed the eagle. “When you were small, did you play Eagle Fights Mother Hen?” he asked.
“Yes. I was always the eagle.” I recalled playmates shrieking and running from me. “I ran and grabbed the chick all the time. Nobody could beat me.”
“They never let me be the eagle.” He took a breath. “What will you do with your son?”
“Sam’s grandmother will keep him.” If she didn’t, then I would tell Yang everything and leave the boy with him. He was an upright man.
“You said you were taking him to China.”
“This is more important.”
A sly smile crossed his face. “I saved you from taking him to China. You should pay me.”
“Shut your mouth before I change my mind.”
We returned to town, each walking on a different side of the railway.
I kicked a pebble and watched it roll ahead. Fist had done nothing to prove his mettle; he had no righteous claim to lead. By chance, he lived near the graveyard; only that happenstance had brought him here. He held that bag of explosives only by default: his kinsmen were both crippled while Bookman Soon needed to stay safe.
Me, I had been sent here by the gods. One Leg and Fist knew I had not planned on returning to his camp. But odd events had led me there. The stagecoach had an accident. Then, by another miracle, Sam had travelled quickly enough to catch up and give me the news that had swayed his grandmother. I was by far Fist’s best chance for success. I had trekked extra miles to his camp, after a week travelling up and down this canyon.
I shut my eyes. The trestle had evenly placed ties. Late-afternoon light flashed between them. The heavy steel gleamed like a silver roof beam but stretched higher and longer. Fist needed to tie ropes to the iron track, the strongest part of the trestle. But knotting the rope required dropping it and then pulling it up. One of us needed to bend over the edge of the track and reach for the dangling length. That involved looking at the ground below. I hoped Fist had strong ropes that had been used lately, even though they had been cast off from other work and salvaged for re-use.
We agreed to leave as early as possible the next morning. I told Fist to lie down and get some sleep. I sighed at his departing back. Fist was a strange one. What if he changed his mind again?
In the washhouse drying room, the boy was sitting on the floor by the open door with a deck of playing cards, sorting them by colour. Every now and then he held up a card and called out to Yang, who was busy hanging wet clothes onto the lines. Yang came over and pointed to one of the piles, either red or black. It was one of the face cards; its colours weren’t clear to the boy.
I told the boy to stop bothering Yang’s work, but he paid me no attention. He kept calling for the washman. Even when I pointed out the right stack to the boy, he insisted that Yang come over. Having noticed that Yang kept his boots clean and brightly polished, I asked to borrow his brush, cloth, and blacking. He obliged.
I went to work briskly to ensure that if I died tomorrow, then at least the people who recovered my body would find something to admire about me. The caked mud dropped off in clumps. The tear in the leather was longer. I rubbed in generous amounts of blacking. My shoes were the only things of value that I would take back to China.
When Sam’s grandmother entered the laundry, then I knew for sure that the gods were watching over me. As she and Yang spoke, I heard Sam’s name and the word “China.” The boy stared at the floor and fidgeted. He mumbled a few times. The washman told me that the boy said he didn’t want to go to China. He wanted to stay here. They would send word to Mary in Cache Creek about the boy’s new situation. She might want to do something.
“Did he ask why I was going away?” I asked.
The washman shook his head.
On the way to Tai Yuen store, Yang and Sam’s grandmother took the boy’s hands between them.
I trailed behind. My letting-go helped everyone. Now Sam had a son who was just like him. The boy wouldn’t be a water buffalo driven from the temple. And he would likely see his mother again.
Yang said I needn’t enter the store. The manager knew both him and Sam’s grandmother. He added, “To sell your son, don’t touch his head. Touch it and you’ll weep a ton.”
“Don’t worry about me,” I snapped.
I almost hurled myself into the air and somersaulted. This was the earlier me, relieved of fatherly duties, free to dance, released to dash in whatever direction I wanted. Every man in the game hall feared me. The hands of the clock had been magically turned back by a week. I was in Victoria, where Rainbow opened her soft white arms to me.
Mary never found me in that teahouse.
That mix-blood named Sam Bing Lew? Never heard of him.
Had there been a fire in Lytton? Don’t ask me.
Giddy with glee, I reached into my stockings, hoping that my bankroll was still there. But they were empty, so my gloom returned. I crossed the road and crouched behind some crates. I had to clutch my shoulders and press my arms into my chest to stop its sudden heaving.
What had my father felt when he saw me that last time at our final parting? He had spent hundreds, maybe thousands more days with me than I had spent with Peter. Hadn’t he gripped my fingers tight in his rough hands to pull me through a temple crowd?
Could he recall my face or a shared meal? He had scolded me for spilling rice on the table, for failing to brush the mud off his clogs, and for dragging my spoon bottom against the lip of the soup bowl.
He had walked away and sailed far beyond my reach so now I could do the same to Peter. Father steals a steamed bun; son does arson.
Two days ago, I had decided to take the boy to China. That made me a superior man. Now a new way to change my fate had sprung up, something far better than entering America.
I hardly knew the brat. We had spent six, seven days together, squabbling the whole time. I was sure he hadn’t wailed so much in a long while, stuck with a cheerless fellow who spanked him and threw him about like a bushel of potatoes. I was gruff and impatient. In Victoria, I ignored Chinatown’s few children. I sneered at men who fawned and crooned lullabies to c
all over the little darlings so they could pinch their cheeks and then press sweet treats into their hands.
I never knew this boy when he was a baby.
When did he take his first steps? Had they been on a dirt floor or on some smooth stones?
What blessings were received at his full-month banquet? Did he get any tokens of gold?
How was his name chosen?
When the boy emerged from Tai Yuen, he and Sam’s grandmother licked happily at sticks of hard brown sugar. An envelope with a broad red strip on it poked from Yang’s pocket.
A tear slid down my cheek. The boy and I couldn’t even speak to one another. He never obeyed me and had no inkling how a son ought to behave. A sampan and a war junk sailed at each other, strong winds behind each. They could crash and drag each other to the ocean bottom.
The washman took his leave from the others and headed toward me. I scrambled back but hit a wall. How did he know where I was? He must have seen me from the window.
“Why squat there?” He held out the letter. “What do you cry for? You’re not a woman.”
I didn’t go back to the washhouse. I had seen a China man with a lopsided grin stroll from a shack, a hodgepodge of salvaged planks and boards with no windows. I found its door heavy, but it had an oiled hinge that let it swing quietly. The sweet burnt smell of opium hung in the air. Small lamps flickered on the floor where customers muttered and dozed.
The owner asked if I wanted to lie on something solid or soft. Solid meant less risk of fleas and mites. The fumes warmed my chest and relaxed my stomach.
Birds are chirping in the tree. Underneath, Grandmother and Mother squat at a portable clay stove and dish out rice and flavourings. They give me chopsticks and a covered bowl and send me to deliver it to Grandfather. I skip over cobbled paths that survived battle and fire. Now I can see the distant hill. Before the war, the walls of the perimeter houses used to block my view. Those burned buildings were knocked down, so the village is being reconstructed.
A sense of hope warms the springtime air. Everyone who survived the wars came back. Everyone says I’m lucky because Father is working abroad. His money lets us build a new house.
At the site, men pound the earth into a hard floor. Grandfather perches on a high ladder, setting a beam into the frame of the house. He tells me to wait. I sit on a pile of bricks under some shade. My friend Kai has a cage with two crickets. I poke at them but keep looking up at Grandfather. On one of those upward glances, I find him gone. I scramble to my feet, panicked.
“Where’s my Grandfather?” I shout.
“At the dike.”
I hurry off, clutching the bowl. At several turns, I find my path blocked by the rubble of fallen houses. Several detours later, I’m on my way to the river.
“Hok, taking food to your Grandfather?” Granny Three asks. “What a good boy you are.”
Men use ropes to pull old boulders from the water. During the war, the enemy toppled the dike and let the river wash away the road. Now the wall must be rebuilt and the water drained. Grandfather is in chest-high water. I call to him and he tells me to wait. I squat and keep an anxious eye on him. After I come back from peeing, he’s gone.
“Where’s my Grandfather?” I ask the rock men.
“Went to town for roof tiles.”
I run without watching the road. Sharp rocks cut into my feet. I stumble but hold the bowl. If I drop it, then Grandfather will rap his knuckle on my head.
“Hok, your Grandfather just went by,” Fourth Uncle yells. “You’re a good boy.”
At the tile factory, a crowd plugs the entrance. Many people are rebuilding. Grandfather tells me to stand aside and wait. I vow to pay attention until he eats his food. Street vendors pass, touting sweet treats and dried plums. I ignore them.
Grandfather pushes a wheelbarrow heaped with the clay tiles. I beg him to eat. He says to wait. We take the shortcut along the river. But the wheel sinks into mud and the wheelbarrow tips over, spilling the tiles into the water. Grandfather jumps down to retrieve them: gulps air, ducks under the surface, and then hands them to me. I want to join him. Grandfather says it’s too deep. He goes under for another load. I wait, but Grandfather doesn’t return. I look for bubbles in the muddy water. I call out. Louder. I scream and slide down the muddy bank, but I don’t jump in. My body trembles. Then Grandfather leaps up, grabs me, and pulls me into the water to play. We are both laughing, a sound that is rarely heard.
It will be good to see him again.
17
AN UNUSED ROAD IS NOT SMOOTH (1885)
Fist entered the laundry and bid us a loud good morning. He was late. Through the door I saw railway workers with lunch pails hurrying to the station and travellers standing outside the hotel, waiting for horses and buggies. A man walked by, shaking out a heavy apron.
“Ropes and explosives?” I demanded.
“Not going,” he said.
I glanced outside. No packs were there.
He was pointing at Yang. “Does he know?”
I nodded, having told him everything when he demanded to know about my ties to Fist. “Did you wet your bed all night?”
“The road is new and strong. You can’t bring it down.”
“A new latrine is fragrant for three days.”
“Then it’s time to go home.” He reached for the door. “As you told me.”
“Die now!” I grabbed his neck and slammed him to the wall.
“Screw!” His eyes bulged as he clawed in vain at me. “You’re dead too.”
I expected him to crumple to the ground and weep like a girl.
“I’m a bandit chief.” I squeezed his throat harder. “Your life is nothing. You will never see China.”
Yang must have climbed onto the counter and leapt, because he crashed from above and knocked us over. We hit the floor and I lost my grip.
He pressed an axe into my chest. “Stop this.”
Fist was curled into himself, taking deep breaths. Yang dragged him away. I barred the front door and kicked the bench against it.
In the back room, Fist leaned on the wall, rubbing his neck.
I hefted the axe. “You run and I’ll chop your head.”
He looked away as I spoke. “On my way home I thought, ‘Why not do a nice thing? Let me take His Holiness’s words to Fist.’ So I made a detour and went all the way to your camp. For this, I even dumped my son.”
“You wanted the brat gone,” he spat out.
I slammed the axe into the table. He jumped.
Yang brought battered mugs with steam rising. “Drink tea and talk slowly.”
“Why can’t I leave?” Fist cried out.
I stretched out my arms. “I’ll beat you softer than cake. We agreed on this; we’re just two men doing a job.”
“My uncles shouldn’t get fragrant so early.”
“You don’t care about them; they’ve run off already. Wrecking the trestle was your idea.”
“It was talk, stupid talk.”
“One Leg is laughing right now. He’s waiting for you to crawl back, head bowed, tail between your legs. You gutless dog.”
“No one can fix things here. Men are stiff or gone home. Or crazy as One Leg.”
His body was shaking. At any moment, he would start to weep.
Yang draped an arm around Fist’s shoulders. “Young man, walk away and your name will stink forever. People in China will hear about the ruined graves; your entire family will be shamed.”
“Screw you. They’re so far away, nobody will know.” Fist shook him off. “It was idle talk, a man letting off steam.”
“You could go home where cheering crowds lift you to their shoulders as if you single-handedly kicked all the redbeards out of Hong Kong.”
“I could fall off the trestle and get nailed.” He stared at the floor.
“Do this for your sons and daughters.” The washman poured more tea. “When your children crowd at your feet and ask what you did in Gold Mountain, what wil
l you say? You will lower your head and mutter, ‘I was a coolie.’
“‘What’s a coolie?’ they’ll shout.
“‘Redbeards kicked me around,’ you’ll mumble.
“‘Did you kick back?’
“‘I ran away,’ you’ll moan.”
Yang thumped the crate and added, “If your own children don’t respect you, you’ll get fragrant at a young age.”
“There won’t be children,” snapped Fist. “No woman will marry a pock face.”
“You go home a hero, and matchmakers will fill your door like beggars at New Year. Gentry families use famous sons-in-law to make great profits.”
We heard the eager clucking of chickens as the neighbour cooed and started to feed them.
When Fist shook his head defiantly and looked away, I said, “Give me the explosives and ropes. I’ll go myself.”
“Indeed,” exclaimed Yang. “If Fist can’t do it, then let him back out. This cage has no lid; men come and go as they want. Why stop others from doing what must be done?”
“You’re not going to be the rock brain who blocks the way, are you?” I said.
When Fist failed to reply, I sensed his mood shifting. “You’re right,” I said, “no one knows about you. You can go back to One Leg this very moment. You will be safe forever. Your mother will be pleased to see you.”
He shook his head.
“Go ahead to Yale, then,” I said. “What about this? You come along and be my sentry.”
Fist looked up.
“You think we can do this?”
“I’m going home alive,” I told him. “My grandfather and I, we’re very close. We have much unfinished business.”
He stood. “I’m crazy to follow you.”
I clapped him on the back. “I saw how you shaved and cleaned up after seeing the damaged graves. You thought clearly then; do the same now.”
The sky was grey and dark; the air hung cool and damp. Rain would slow our trip and stop the fuses from doing their job. We needed to walk fast. The clouds were sliding east, a good sign. The packs were bulky but not heavy, tied with ropes stretched helter-skelter. I watched Fist closely. Without knowing which sack held what, I had not moved fast enough to grab the explosives.
