by Bo Caldwell
“Your stay here was not planned,” the bandit said.
“I do not remember how I came to be here,” I said, trying to make my lapse sound casual.
Hsiao Lao smiled wryly. “Perhaps your God was watching over you. I have heard stories of this God you believe in: that you speak to Him as if He lives with you here”—he touched his chest—“and that you believe He cares for you as a father cares for a son.”
“Yes.”
“Then perhaps you are right, for you have been most fortunate. You were very ill when my men brought you here two days ago. The heat had overpowered you, as often happens with those who do not know the strength of our sun. But you were not only ill; you had been beaten, and you lay near a road that is heavily traveled. You had no shoes, but you are fortunate: you still had your clothes. You also had these, which I assumed you wanted me, your benefactor, to have.” He held out his wrist, on which he wore the watch my father had given me, and from the brassiere around his waist, he took my compass. “And you had your excellent hat.” He grinned and tapped my pith helmet on his head. “When my men examined your hat, they found my name, so they brought you to me”—he laughed gently—“as though you were a belonging I had misplaced. You were not in possession of your senses. You were at a drowning pool, and I believe you would have died had you been left there.”
“I am grateful to you.”
He went on. “There was also the inn some months ago. Foreign-born, do you know what would have happened to you and your wife and child at the inn that night had I not intervened?”
“I suspect we would have been killed.”
The bandit chief smiled; he seemed pleased. “Correct. So it seems I have saved your life twice now, mu shih, first in the dark of night, and now in the heat of day.”
I winced at the thought of being indebted to this man, but I knew my life was in his hands just then. “It was most honorable of you,” I said.
He laughed. “Lest you be misled, be assured that my reasons for helping you were not moral but practical; I view you as an investment that could prove useful. Life is unpredictable; we never know what we will need.” He regarded me carefully for a moment. “You have a child. Were you blessed with a son?”
“A daughter,” I said. “She passed on.”
He shook his head, and for a moment his expression seemed truly pained. “It is unfortunate to lose your firstborn, even a girl.”
I said nothing.
The bandit continued. “So you know how it is for a father to see his child ill. I suspect fate has brought us together again, for I have heard of your healing and my eldest son—my firstborn—is in need of your attention.”
I shrugged, hoping to make myself appear useless. “I have only the clothes on my back. Nor am I trained for that kind of work. I am only a teacher, not a healer.”
Hsiao Lao shook his head. “I think not. There are many stories about the foreign-born’s healings.”
I suspected he had heard stories of Katherine, not me, but I did not correct him. “I have no supplies,” I said.
Hsiao Lao stood and picked up a kerosene lamp. “That we can remedy,” he said. “Come.”
I followed him out of that room and into another next to it, inside of which were two immense wooden cabinets side by side, the largest pieces of furniture I’d ever seen. Chinese homes had cabinets such as these instead of closets, but I had never seen any so big. Each one was perhaps twelve feet high, four feet wide, and very deep, with a heavy brass lock on its doors.
Hsiao Lao unlocked the first cabinet then opened its doors and stood aside. “Are we not well stocked?” he asked.
I looked inside and saw that the cabinet was crammed with stolen foreign goods: a rolled-up rug, leather suitcases, a mantel clock, a camera, a silver tea service, several quilts, and shoes and stacks of clothing piled high. There were also opened Red Cross relief boxes that held provisions I had not seen in years—cans of bully beef and ham, boxes of raisins, canned fruit. It was the sort of bandit’s loot I had expected. I said, “There’s nothing here I can use for your son.”
Hsiao Lao smiled slyly. “Perhaps here,” he said, and he unlocked the second cabinet and opened its doors wide. I found myself staring at boxes that said CHINA MENNONITE MISSIONARY SOCIETY, MONTGOMERY WARD, and SEARS, ROEBUCK AND CO., all of which I knew were ours, supplies sent by our mission board twice a year and that Katherine had ordered: household goods such as sandpaper and twine, needles and thread; personal items such as toothbrushes and toothpaste, safety razors and shaving cream, fountain pens and pocketknives, all things that were ordinary at home and precious here and that we had waited for and missed month after month.
Then, high on the cabinet’s top shelf, I saw boxes from Parke-Davis and Burroughs-Welcome, the companies from which Katherine ordered medical supplies. My heart beat faster as I reached up and took one down. Inside I found gauze bandages and plaster of Paris and adhesive tape, tubes of ointment and bottles of powders and pills that Katherine used every day, among them emetine and magnesium sulfate—the medicines we had needed for our daughter.
I said nothing but stood there in silence, demanding of God an answer to the question in my heart: Why is this man’s child alive and mine dead?
“Are you not impressed, mu shih?” Hsiao Lao asked.
“Yes,” I said softly. “I am most impressed.” It felt like an admission of defeat.
“Now you have the honor of helping my son,” Hsiao Lao announced grandly. “His cheek has been badly cut. Take what you need and we will go to him.”
I saw no choice but to do what he said. I took a box that held gauze bandages, tape, and plaster of Paris, and I followed Hsiao Lao out of that room and through the maze of his home.
When we reached what seemed to be the opposite side of the dwelling from where we had started, we entered a small room where a boy of perhaps twelve sat playing cards with a young woman. When we entered, the woman quickly rose and stood with her back to the wall, her head bowed. Hsiao Lao growled something I did not understand, his tone harsh, and she hurried from the room as if she’d been struck.
The boy looked up at us solemnly. He had his father’s wide lips, but where they made the father seem jovial, they made the son seem arrogant and scornful. The boy regarded me coolly, with an expression that told me he considered himself my superior. I did not have time to dwell on this, for a dirty rag was tied around his head covering the left side of his face, and I was dreading what the crude bandage concealed.
Hsiao Lao stood behind the boy, his pride evident. “My firstborn, Pao Hsing,” he said—Precious Star—and he rested his hand on the boy’s head and gazed down at him with great tenderness, as any father would. Then he knelt and began to gently remove the cloth from the boy’s head as the boy sat there, unmoved. “He and another boy were out in the fields yesterday,” Hsiao Lao said, “and they had their knives. While they were playing, the other boy cut my son’s cheek. The culprit has since been punished for his carelessness.” The bandit lifted the rag from the boy’s face, and I saw that he had indeed been badly cut. A long deep gash ran from his cheekbone to the corner of his mouth.
Hsiao Lao looked at me expectantly. “Well, healer? What can you do? This is perhaps your most important patient.”
I nodded, fully understanding him, for I had no doubt that I would be killed if I failed to help the boy. As I knelt next to him, he looked at me with wide dark eyes that were at once imploring and demanding and defiant; he knew well who he was. I asked God for guidance and tried to think of any of Katherine’s patients who had had similar wounds. “The wound can heal,” I began, “but the upper and lower parts of the corner of the mouth will not grow together if the boy is constantly opening his mouth to eat and speak.”
Hsiao Lao’s tone was impatient. “Wai-kuo jen”—outside countryman—“your words do nothing. Can you help him?”
I gave the only answer I could: “Yes.”
Hsiao Lao nodded, and I got to work. I
took the package of plaster of Paris from the box I had brought with me from the cabinet and asked for a pot of boiled water. He called out and the young woman he had sent from the room opened the door, nodded at his command, and ran off.
While we waited for her to return, Hsiao Lao played cards with his son as I looked on. When the water was delivered, I carefully cleaned the wound, then mixed a generous amount of plaster with the water. I brought together the edges of the wound and, as Hsiao Lao held them in place, I covered the length of the wound with a thick piece of gauze followed by first one and then another layer of plaster. The boy was patient during all of this, staying very still and watching my face.
When I had finished, I stood up and looked nervously at Hsiao Lao. Probably less than an hour had passed, but I felt as though I had been working all afternoon. I gave whatever instructions I could think of, dictated by common sense. “He cannot have solid food, only liquids. If he must open his lips, he must hold the corners of his mouth together with his fingers.”
The bandit nodded knowingly, as if these were his thoughts exactly. “In how many days will he be healed?”
I had no idea. “Three weeks,” I said, because it sounded reasonable. “Twenty-one days.”
Hsiao Lao shook his head. “Twenty-one is an unfavorable number. Twenty-four is more fortuitous.”
I was feeling flexible. “Very well,” I said. “In twenty-four days his wound will be healed.”
The bandit chief looked satisfied. “If you are correct, you may then return to your home. If not, you will stay until the boy has healed.”
I stared at him in disbelief. “I cannot possibly remain here.”
The bandit waved my words away. “Oh, but you can, mu shih,” he said, and he paused. “If I wish it.”
I shook my head. “My wife is in Kuang P’ing Ch’eng. She is still recovering from the loss of our child. She will worry; she will be tormented.”
He said nothing.
“Hsiao Lao, I beg you to allow me to go home, and I will return when it is time to remove the plaster. I am a man of honor and of God.”
Still he said nothing for perhaps a minute. Then he said, “You will send word saying that you are safe. I do not wish to worry Kung Mei Li.”
He watched me closely as he said my wife’s name, and I understood the unspoken threat. It had the desired effect; I was afraid for her, and I nodded obediently.
“You will not say where you are, only that you will be here helping others, which I believe is the reason you came to our country.”
I nodded again.
“There is much for you to do here. My men are plagued by all manner of maladies, which I am certain you can cure. After twenty-four days, if my son has healed and my men are in good health, you may go.”
My spirits sank at the uncertainty of remaining in that place, but I understood there was nothing I could do. The bandit chief called again to the woman outside, and she brought paper and pen and ink to me. Hsiao Lao looked on as I wrote to Katherine. I started in English, but he snatched the paper away from me and told me to write in his language. I started again, this time writing Chinese characters, and when I was finished, I handed my work to my taskmaster, who read it with disdain. I said that I had been sick, and that strangers had taken me in and would care for me until I was well enough to return home. I said I was safe, that I would be home in four weeks, and that I prayed for her peace of mind.
I was taken back to my room and left alone. I had no idea what time it was; it felt very late. I heard shouting and loud carrying on in other parts of the house. For the most part I could not understand what they were saying, but a few times I heard the bandits playing a game in which one man quoted a line of poetry, then someone else supplied the next line. This went on for what seemed like hours. Finally the noise died down, presumably because they had had enough opium to make them doze, and I too fell into an uneasy sleep.
I was awakened by my jailer. I guessed it was still night; the room was very dark. The old man motioned for me to go with him, and once again I followed him through the maze of the bandits’ home. At one point I thought how foolish it was to be up so late; how was I going to get up in the morning to do all that needed to be done? Then I remembered where I was, and I realized that for perhaps the first time in my life it did not matter what time I got up in the morning.
I could not imagine that being summoned by a ruthless bandit in the middle of the night was good, and I tried to brace myself for whatever was next. But when we entered Hsiao Lao’s room I found him sitting alone, quietly cleaning his rifle, and he seemed genuinely glad to see me. He greeted me like an old friend. “Mu shih,” he said graciously, “how good of you to visit me again.”
I nodded cautiously. “It is good of you to receive me.”
“What kind of health does your honorable grandfather enjoy?” he asked.
It was custom to inquire after a guest’s ancestors. “My grandfather left this world many years ago.”
Hsiao Lao nodded and then seemed to register my confusion at the late hour. “Ah,” he said, nodding, “I am often unable to sleep.” His tone was gentle, as though explaining something difficult to a child. “My great intelligence keeps me awake. So you and I will talk and pass the night until I can rest. We have much to discuss.” He eagerly motioned for me to sit across from him, and when I had seated myself, he looked at me for a long moment and I met his gaze.
“You are looking at my eyes,” he said. “The color surprises you.”
“It does. I have not met anyone in China with eyes like yours.”
“What color would you say they are?”
“Golden brown,” I said. “Like amber.”
He nodded, pleased. “Just so, mu shih. My ancestors believed that amber contains the soul of the tiger, and that it gives strength and courage to anyone who wears it. The color of my eyes is a sign that I have the tiger’s soul, and with it his courage and strength. I am named for him.”
I was somewhat taken aback at the bandit chief’s high opinion of himself, but I answered politely, “Ni t’sa ch’ien’la”—You are too modest. Then I added, “Perhaps over time you will gain his confidence as well.”
He missed my tone. “That I have as well,” he said matter-of-factly. Then he regarded me for a moment and said, “I believe you are a man of education, mu shih. Where did you receive this gift?”
The night seemed more and more dreamlike, but the rifle at the bandit chief’s side and the intensity of his gaze were both very real, so I answered his question. “The Mennonite Bible Academy in Corn, Oklahoma.”
Hsiao Lao nodded as though he knew the place well and said, “As I suspected, an excellent institution.” He was quiet then, and I knew he wanted me to ask him the same question; it was characteristic of Chinese conversation to ask a question that you wanted to be asked.
“And you, Hsiao Lao?”
“I studied at the university of the green forest,” he said, and when I did not respond, he smiled broadly. “Bandits have been my teachers.”
He went on to tell me about his life. He was born into a peasant family, and in an attempt to provide for his children, his father joined the imperial army. A harsh and cruel man, his father enlisted Hsiao Lao in the military when he was just ten. In an effort to better himself, Hsiao Lao vowed not to drink alcohol or use opium, as both would dull his senses and his talents, a vow he had continued to keep, though he did not require it of his men. He learned to read because as a boy he had heard stories about the region’s bandits and warlords, men who were wild and fierce and noble, and he had wanted to read those stories for himself. Those led him to the tales of famous warriors in the Chinese classics, which awoke in Hsiao Lao a strong feeling of love for China in general and for the northeast in particular, the region that was home for him and for many of the great warriors. He had gone on to read and memorize many of the classics, and he encouraged his men to do the same.
In comparison to the warlords of the pas
t, he considered the military leaders of his time to be inept and corrupt, seduced by the lure of power and wealth. He came to revile them and, because he would not compromise, he left the military and joined a bandit gang whose leader possessed passion and courage. Because the military had paid him almost nothing and because he had grown up poor, he was determined not to grow old that way.
Hsiao Lao was then not yet twenty, but White Wolf, the leader of the bandit gang, recognized his intelligence and made Hsiao Lao his confidant and advisor. White Wolf soon consulted Hsiao Lao on every decision: when to attack, where to attack, how to treat his men, how much opium to buy, how to punish disobedience. Hsiao Lao found he had the gift of foresight: he could examine a situation and see in his mind exactly what to do at that moment. White Wolf was superstitious; his previous advisor had been a Taoist soothsayer in whom Hsiao Lao placed no trust. Hsiao Lao explained that he made his recommendations not by looking at the stars but by looking in his heart and mind, and the soothsayer was dismissed.
When the bandit gang was attacked without warning by a small band of imperial soldiers, White Wolf’s trust in Hsiao Lao wavered, and he secretly met with his former soothsayer. After that night, the soothsayer was not seen alive again; his headless body was found outside the next morning. With the soothsayer’s murder, White Wolf grew more nervous and became fearful of everything and everyone. Hsiao Lao quietly pointed out the chief’s weaknesses to his men and said that their leader’s caution was cowardice, that his plans were doomed. When White Wolf mysteriously died after eating dinner with only Hsiao Lao, the men were not surprised. Killing one’s enemy during a feast was a well-honored tradition of war.
“Since that time I have been the guardian of Feng Hsiang Chou, the town in which you and your wife and daughter stayed, and where you became ill.” Feng Hsiang Chou—City of Felicitous Winds—was a place Hsiao Lao said he owned, which was very nearly the truth, as he demanded large payments from its residents, payments he called taxes but which were really simple extortion. He taxed weddings and funerals, wealth and profits, livestock and land. There were taxes on everyday items such as grain and salt and firewood, and on luxuries such as tobacco and opium. If he needed additional funds or if he sensed disloyalty in his citizens, he created new taxes, or he required his citizens to pay their existing taxes years in advance. Just then he was considering a tax that would pay for a shrine to the benefactor of Feng Hsiang Chou—himself. In return for these payments, he offered the village protection from other bandit gangs, mostly through his reputation for swift and brutal retaliation.
