Dragons in Shallow Waters

by Kane, Clare

  “Hold the trunk behind you, don’t let them see it,” Edward said, letting go of it, and surprising me with the morbid weight I now sustained. “Poor Laurent. He has done so much already, and he will not want to turn them away.”

  The bishop opened the elaborately carved doors, stepped out to address the crowd, appealed for calm. A group of women seized this opportunity to push past him into the dark promise of the cathedral. The others remained outside, but gesticulated forcefully, clasping their hands in prayer, falling to their knees, reaching for the bishop’s arm, his shoulder, pulling even on his hair as they entreated him to let them inside. Perhaps most disconcerting were those who spoke no words, who stood unstirred, their expressions entirely dispassionate, their instinct for survival nearing extinction.

  “Lai, lai,” the bishop was saying to them as we approached. “Come, come. Each one shall find a home in the house of the Lord.” He followed his invitation with qualifications, explaining that space was limited, food was scarce and that he could not promise absolute safety, but the refugees were deaf to this, joyous in their small salvation. They charged into the cathedral, leaving the bishop alone to face us.

  “Mr Samuels,” he said.

  Bishop Laurent was a Frenchman of around forty, with ginger beard and a belly that strained the seams of his cassock.

  “We are very sorry to bother you at this very difficult time, Bishop Laurent,” Edward said. He pointed at the trunk, which I eased from behind me, felt its unbearable weight as I placed it on the floor before the bishop. “We are in need of a place to put…a young man.”

  “No, no young men.” The bishop shook his head vehemently. “I have accepted only women and children, a handful of elderly men. Some of the women here, they have seen things that mean they might never wish to set eyes upon another man in their lives. Who can blame them?”

  “No,” I interrupted, wishing to speak before Edward, knowing that he would fumble over his words; while he was unaccustomed to death, the quitting of life furnished my home and clothed my body. “The young man of whom we speak is dead. His body is in pieces inside this very trunk. We have no desire to burden you, but we are at a loss as to where to take his corpse.”

  The bishop raised his eyes heavenwards and made the sign of the cross across his barrel chest.

  “Who?” he asked.

  “James Millington. A student interpreter.”

  “Follow me.” The bishop led us into the cathedral.

  I had only visited the Peitang two or three times before and on each of those occasions the absolute silence of the place had impressed me, the intractable stillness that filled the cavernous space between its stone walls. Now that silence was replaced by the thick, pressing clamour of hundreds of people, their desperate bodies covering every inch of the flagstone floor. Still more lay on the pews, surrounded by blankets and pots and pans, items seized in haste when they had abandoned their homes.

  “My God,” I said.

  “They have been coming for weeks,” Laurent said, advancing through the space with careful tread, sure to avoid stepping on the bodies that dotted the floor. “Mostly from the countryside. Today, of course, we have welcomed many from Peking. Neighbours. The German is to blame, naturally.”

  “German?” Edward repeated.

  “Yes, you know him. Mr von Ketteler. Very foolhardy, he chased after a Boxer who proved too fast for him, and so he took a young boy instead. Held him prisoner. Most foolish.” We passed outside into the small churchyard where a smattering of headstones rose above the dry scrub of a lawn. “I fear many more shall have to flee their homes.” He ran his foot along a patch of rainless grass. “Now, gentlemen, if one of my boys can dig something here would that be sufficient for your young friend?”

  “Yes, absolutely. Thank you, Bishop,” I said. The hubbub inside continued, carrying over the stale air to reach us outside. “Is there anything we might do to help? These circumstances appear rather untenable.”

  “Food,” he said, exasperated and defeated in tone. “That is what we need.” He looked skywards, watched the ripple of orange and red flames turning black as they spiralled higher. “A ceremony shall be expected at some point, I imagine.”

  A young girl dressed in what looked like a school uniform padded out into the yard.

  “Bishop Laurent,” she addressed him in lisping French. “There are more people from the countryside. Shall we let them in?”

  The bishop looked down at his feet.

  “They are knocking on the door,” the girl continued. “They are shouting very loudly.”

  “Go inside, Ling,” he said finally. “I will be right along.”

  The girl, who looked around eight or nine, with sweet little pigtails bobbing by her ears, nodded obediently and proceeded towards the cathedral.

  “You see?” The bishop looked between me and Edward. “This shall not cease. And how could I turn them away?”

  “Bishop Laurent,” I said. “There must be something we can do.”

  “Unless you know of some place where these good people might go, I’m afraid there is little any of us can do to alleviate their suffering. Come, please, gentlemen. I will take care of young James. He, at least, shall rest in peace.”

  There were more than fifty refugees gathered on the steps to the Peitang, shouting, weeping and begging to be let in. Bishop Laurent opened the door just slightly, glancing between the anguished refugees on his doorstep and the wretched and demoralized who filled the cathedral behind him. Just as he stepped back to allow the newcomers inside, I stopped him. Now we had safely deposited James’ body, the refugees appeared to me once more as individual vessels of tragedy and I could not disregard the desperation in their hoarse voices or the anguish in the coarse hands they clasped tightly in prayer.

  “I have an idea,” I said.

  In the Legation Quarter stood the residence of a suave and somewhat pliable courtier by the name of Prince Su. The prince’s mansion, an expansive palace of low, sloping roofs and open courtyards, was situated just across the Imperial Canal from the British Legation. I had met Su in my reporting efforts, and knew him to have both a taste for the finer things in life and a very flexible backbone. The Manchus might have advocated bamboo-like adaptability in political maneuvers, but Su was unique in his utterly brazen lack of convictions, his selfish desire to move with the wind wherever he thought more favor might shine upon him. He had provided me with valuable information on a number of occasions, expecting little more than a lavish dinner or debauched evening in the company of enchanting women in return for stories that might have terminated his career had their source been discovered.

  “Edward,” I said, lowering my voice. “Let us take them to the Su mansion.”

  Bishop Laurent looked perplexed.

  “Are you quite sure, Mr Scott?” he asked in quiet tones.

  “Absolutely,” I said. Whatever I lacked in conviction, I compensated for in bluster. With Edward by my side, I led the throng of rootless, unsettled travelers through the streets until we stopped outside the gates of Su’s palace. A neatly-dressed servant approached the entrance, his face drawing pale when the dozens of people gathered behind me came into his line of sight.

  “Yes?” He opened the door only slightly, addressed me charily through this slender gap.

  “Please call for Prince Su,” I said, sanguine and assured. My Mandarin remained awkwardly accented, but I succeeded in issuing this instruction with confidence. “Tell him his friend Mr Si-Kao-Te has come to see him.”

  “Si-Kao-Te,” the servant repeated, chewing nervously over the transliterated syllables of my name.

  The servant retreated. We waited. The women and children grew restless, some of the smallest infants keened and whimpered. Ten minutes passed before the servant returned, and invited me to an audience with the prince.

  “Mr Scott,” Prince Su sa
id carefully, receiving me in a cool, shaded room. The courtier, dressed in a lightweight robe of jade silk, did not stand, but gestured for me to sit before him. His fingernails were long, curved crescents and his queue hung silken and gleaming down his spine. “You wished to speak with me?”

  “Prince Su,” I started. “Your people are being massacred. The Peitang is full of people forced to abandon their homes and leave the remains of their murdered families behind. We seek some place where they may finally find safety.”

  The prince smiled doubtfully.

  “Here, Prince Su, you have ample space, a palace far beyond the needs of any one man. I believe it is only right that you, in accordance with your role as servant to the Qing government, offer these hopeless people a sanctuary in your home. In fact, Prince Su, I would go so far as to suggest it is your duty to protect them.”

  The prince considered, crossed his hands, unlined and smooth, in his lap.

  “Mr Scott,” he began, his lips stretched thin.

  “Prince Su,” I said. “I know you to be a reasonable man. Do you want your legacy to be that of a man who let his fellow citizens be slaughtered, beheaded, torn limb from limb by some Shantung bandits? I very much doubt that.” I took a breath. Su let me continue. “I know you are a good man, Prince Su, a scholar, a gentleman in the finest Confucian tradition. That is why I have come alone, with only Mr Samuels for company, knowing how distasteful, how unthinkable it would be to pay visit to a man as cultivated as your highness accompanied by soldiers.”

  The prince considered the threat, sitting absolutely still before me, only the gentle furrow across his brow betraying his hesitance.

  “It would be an honor,” he said at length. “Nothing could please me more than to allow these defenseless women and children into my home.”

  Prince Su called the servant to his side and whispered a low command into his ear. The man nodded, and Su dismissed me. I followed the servant to the palace entrance, where with hesitant movement and an expression of distaste, he eased the doors open and I ushered the refugees through the gaping entranceway. They followed me through the courtyard to the mansion proper, awe-struck at what awaited them inside. I lead them through the hallways and high-ceilinged rooms, past the Prince’s collections of lustrous jade, burnished gold and serpentine calligraphy. A half hour later Prince Su returned momentarily to bid me farewell.

  “Goodbye, Mr Scott,” he said graciously. “I trust you shall care for the palace in my absence.”

  “Naturally, Prince Su.”

  I marveled at how easily the prince had been displaced. He departed, supported by four bearers in an elaborate palanquin fringed with red tassels, leaving Edward and I to walk through the palace trailed by our assorted followers. We discovered the lingering members of Su’s harem, fair-skinned beauties draped in colorful, shimmering silks who flitted from corner to corner as nervous butterflies. Their delightfully decorated faces fell with sharp disquiet when they caught sight of the grimy-faced children, some with their clothes in rags, struggling behind us.

  “I cannot believe the prince simply up and left,” Edward said to me as we completed our circuit of the palace and its expansive grounds. “How on earth did you know he would agree to our demands?”

  “Prince Su is a man too exceedingly easy to comprehend,” I said. “He will have been desperate to flee, mark my words. Peking is too dangerous, too febrile, for a man who desires only to enjoy women and wine. It is much to his advantage to depart in the role of hero.”

  “I daresay not all the ladies here consider him a hero,” Edward said, grinning broadly.

  “Quite,” I agreed. “Now, Mr Samuels, if you don’t mind, I ought to pay a visit to the Wards.”

  “Go! You have done more than could have been expected. I shall remain to see them settled.” Edward accompanied me to the exit, waving warm-heartedly as I left him behind in that palace of lost souls.

  Lillian Price, her eyes fierce and swollen, took a deep, ungracious gulp of gin, her hand trembling slightly where she gripped the fine-cut crystal glass. Encircled by Phoebe Franklin, La Contessa and a wide-eyed Beatrice Moore, the American girl sat silently against a straight-backed chair, her chest fluttering still in the half-calmed corollary of tears.

  “Don’t you think her parents would object?” Phoebe Franklin ventured. “Gin is not a drink for young ladies.”

  “We live in extraordinary times, Mrs Franklin,” I said as I stepped into the drawing room.

  Indeed, we were not aware of it then, but we would soon justify all kinds of ignoble actions in that experiment in co-existence we unwittingly conducted. Our community wouldn’t become entirely lawless; my experiences have taught me that even the most desperate, bloody and primitive societies adhere to shared codes of human behavior. But our common laws would nonetheless be rewritten. The boorish ways of the Boxers would succeed in destabilizing our own civilization, in sweeping away the enlightened principles that we believed divided us from them. The beginnings of this process were evinced, too, in La Contessa’s sudden sweep across the room, in the intimate placing of her arms around my neck, in the relief in her voice as she cried: “Oh, you are well!”

  Immediately she corrected herself, stepped back from me and assumed formal posture. “It is only, Mr Scott, that we hadn’t seen you yet today and with this terrible news…”

  “Naturally,” I said magnanimously. “Mrs Moore, have you seen your husband? He received something of a fright earlier today.”

  “Yes,” she said coolly. “He was rather flustered. He is sleeping it off now. We are rather more concerned that Mr Millington did not return to the residence, and is feared dead.”

  Lillian watched me as might a hunted animal, with expression both accusing and besieged. I approached the ignoble throne upon which she sat, her grief visceral, naked, inglorious, and my tongue failed me. What words might I offer this eternal recipient of privilege and prestige, this holder of a young life so carefully protected, so far unassailed by the brutish horrors of existence? None would provide a salve, I knew, and so I tried for phrases plain and un-elaborate, attempted to avoid those pathetic, flat and well-meaning utterances so commonly expressed in the wake of tragedy.

  “I am sorry, Miss Price,” I said simply. “I know Mr Millington was a friend of yours. I can confirm that he has indeed passed away.”

  “You do not need to be sorry, Mr Scott,” she said.

  I made then to touch her shoulder, but she angled her frame out of my reach.

  “Miss Ward is outside on the verandah,” La Contessa said gently.

  I nodded and turned to leave, starting when Lillian emitted a crude sob, a noise strangled and private, wrenched from her wretched gut.

  “A time to be born and a time to die,” Phoebe Franklin said to her. “Do not fight the Lord’s plan. Do not try to understand. Only ask for strength.”

  “Take another sip,” La Contessa said, smiling tenderly towards me as she stroked Lillian’s blond head.

  Nina stood absolutely still, her back to the house, straight and ungiving, her silhouette burning orange as the sun dipped towards the walls of the Legation Quarter. She looked to the horizon, where smoke drifted lazily above defeated streets and the silence of a spectral city was punctuated still by the occasional cry of Sha! Sha!

  “Nina,” I said.

  Slowly, agonizingly, she turned to me. Her face, usually animated and expressive of spirit, surprised with vacant countenance.

  “Alistair,” she said quietly, her voice splintered. “Oh, Alistair, I killed him.”

  “Nina, whatever do you mean?”

  “That is what she said to me,” Nina said, steady and low. “She said I sent him away.”

  I reached for her hand, guided her to a seat, implored her to explain. Avoiding my eyes, her face fixed desperately upon the disappearing sun, its last rays throwing her mournful fe
atures into pallid relief, Nina explained that Lillian had suggested she go to see James the previous evening.

  “I was ready to sleep when she came back from the library. She said James wished to see me, and in such a sharp tone that I felt I really must go,” Nina said. “I protested, it was late, I said, and he ought to sleep. And she said, quite mocking, quite cruel in tone, ‘The invalid requires a nurse, and only Miss Ward shall do.’ And so I went to see him.”

  James was reading in bed when Nina arrived at the library. She spoke pleasantly with him for a few moments, asked if she might request anything for him, some tea or another pillow or some balm for his wounds, but he only motioned for her to come closer and with reluctant step she approached, sensing that he required something of her that she was not able to give. He spoke rapidly, hurried to share heavy, expectant words with her. He had felt stirrings of emotion towards her, he explained, ever since he had seen her at the celebration of Queen Victoria’s birthday in May, and had even persuaded Hugo to accompany him in paying a visit to Nicholas just for the opportunity to see her again.

  “He did not ask me to marry him, or tell me that he was in love with me,” Nina said, “but his words echoed those spoken to me by Barnaby George. I feared what he might say if I allowed him to continue, and so I excused myself.”