Dreams of the Red Phoenix

by Virginia Pye

  With some difficulty, he reached across to light the lamp and tried to see the soldiers’ faces in the dimness. But the men disbanded just then, and Caleb spotted Hsu’s profile as he departed, no doubt occupied with urgent business. Cook appeared abruptly beside Caleb’s cot and looked down on him with sorrow in his clouded eyes.

  “We must leave now,” he said. “Very sorry, Reverend.” Cook pulled the wool blanket higher around Caleb’s neck, bowed, and started to back away.

  “Wait,” Caleb called after him. “Please, what’s happening?” He tried to sit up.

  “Much danger. Troops now depart. We come back when we can. God bless Reverend. Very good Christian man.” Cook bowed a final time and hurried out of the cave.

  Rain pounded the rocky ground on the cliffside as dawn broke over the opposite mountain. Silver rivulets caught the first sunlight, growing wider and stronger with each passing moment. The cascade over the cave’s entrance resembled a true waterfall, as frothing and relentless as the one Caleb had stood under as a boy in summer in the White Mountains. He was inside it now and tried to imagine his brothers beside him. Their shivering bodies had been vivid with delight, unlike his body now, which shook with cold and fear. Caleb told himself to hold close the memory of his brothers. They had always looked after one another, and he prayed for that now.

  The lamp, he noticed, had only a small amount of kerosene left. The fuel would burn down, but luckily dawn was almost here at last. Caleb watched the small flame and enjoyed the shadows it cast on the back wall. He thought of Plato’s “Allegory of the Cave” and chuckled to himself. Of course it would come to this: a cornerstone of Western thought reenacted here in a distant Chinese cave. He had traveled all the way to the other side of the world, hoping to broaden his understanding of life through Eastern ways, but still remained saddled with a Western perspective. Though enlightened by liberal interpretations of the Bible and an eager proponent of Chinese communalism, Caleb knew he was no different from the ancient Greeks of Plato’s allegory. He remained chained to his cave with nothing to do but watch light flicker on the wall and long for his freedom. All knowledge was subjective. All life, a narrow illusion.

  From overhead, he heard the swift, heavy footfalls of the Eighth Route Army as they marched out of camp. After a while, he heard nothing except the pounding of the rain again. The Reds were gone, and he was alone.

  Caleb shifted on the cot to find the right position. He wove his hands together, raised his arms toward the lamplight, creased his thumbs, and flapped his palms. The shadows on the wall took shape as he hoped. A bird began to take flight in the manner his son had always loved. He watched the shadows of the wings soar and longed for Charles’s high and happy voice to beg him to continue.

  He had used the name Red Phoenix yet was nothing but stagnant, barely healed bones now. He had no wings. He had no fine plumage and no myth to carry him upward. He was nothing but feeble hands folded in prayer once more. The bird on the wall took off in a cloud of pale wings, carrying with it the hope that he and his comrades had created here. Then his arms drifted down to his sides. Caleb rested and waited.

  Some time later, he awoke to the hum of aircraft flying low. Reverberations of their engines echoed off the cave walls. The first bomb went off a short distance away, perhaps down in one of the ravines nearby. The planes whined as they circled. The second bomb landed closer. The third was a direct hit at the center of the camp, just up the cliff from Caleb’s cave. The mountain rumbled, and he sensed what was happening before it began. Rocks began to fall, slowly at first and then with greater force as they landed in front of the entrance.

  Through the dimming lamplight, he watched the landslide begin. The heavy rain brought down the rocks, but it was the bombs that had done it. The Japanese had finally discovered the location of the secret Eighth Route Army base in the mountains. Caleb was grateful that the troops had escaped before the bombing began. Someone, he realized, must have intercepted word of the imminent attack and saved them. A spy had done his or her duty, and the soldiers, including Captain Hsu, had been spared. The excellent Eighth Route Army was safe, or at least would not perish in this air raid.

  Caleb watched as rivulets of mud turned to thick streams that oozed into the cave, pouring over the boulders that continued to settle. The giant rocks stacked one on top of the next with surprising ease, and the mud formed a bond between them. Quite quickly the rising wall blocked out gray daylight. The boulders shifted as they were washed over by silt, and Caleb saw the entrance become sealed.

  The lamp sputtered, the oil almost used up. Jesus had known the cock would crow and rose to meet his destiny. Caleb could not stand but knew his fate was fast approaching. But still he held out hope that his spirit could lift up from it like the majestic phoenix from the ashes, like his Lord. Caleb recalled Captain Hsu bestowing his code name upon him. “You will have many lives here in China,” the good captain had said. “Whatever you do to help the people will help you to change as well.” So it had come to pass. Caleb was a changed man, and for the better.

  He let out a long, stuttering sigh, but the tears had dried from his eyes. No longer limp with weakness and fear, he felt his heart growing stronger in his broken chest. He was not sorely afraid. He would be embraced in heaven, or high on some desolate, craggy mountain perch. Soon to be released from the suffering of this world, he would be rewarded with God’s goodness. Washed away, yet not abandoned, Caleb would die in this cave in North China.

  The light was snuffed out then, and all went dark. He could not see what happened next but heard the lamp topple from where it had rested on the ground. The mud flow knocked it over and carried it away with some force. He felt the earth rise up under the cot, wet and chilly on the underside of his legs. He pulled in his hands from the sides and crossed his arms over his chest, but the mud webbed between his fingers, and he felt it rise higher against his ribs. It sloshed over his chest with alarming speed. Quite quickly, the coldness cradled his chin.

  He tried to sit up, but the surface of the cot was too slippery. There would be no escaping the mud. He allowed himself to finally think of her, his wife, Shirley, whom it pained him to leave behind. He pictured her as she stood tall and proud with her arms crossed, her hip cocked, and that saucy, inscrutable expression on her face that he had both adored and tried endlessly to correct. She would stride deeper into her life and carry on, her heart, he knew now, expanded by her time in China. She would do good works going forward, which gave Caleb great comfort.

  And Charles, dear Charles. He would never know the man his son would become, so he thought back to the sensation of holding him in his arms when he was young. Caleb bent down to say good-night, and Charles gripped him tightly around the neck and planted a kiss upon his cheek.

  The mud clogged his nostrils now and slid into his ears. The thick earth covered his eyes and oozed into his mouth. Caleb swallowed out of reflex, choked, then simply let his jaw hang open. He tipped back his head. The wet, moving earth became his pillow, releasing his spirit to take flight.

  Twenty-eight

  When she reached the top of the gangplank of the Gripsholm, the Swedish liner that had been assigned to take foreign women and children out of war-torn China, Shirley did not pause but pressed deeper into the crowd and finally made it to a railing overlooking the water. Dizzy from lack of sleep and hunger, she shut her eyes and steadied herself. When she opened them again, she saw shards of a new day dancing on the fractured surface of the Huangpu River as it led out into the East China Sea. She leaned back and peered into the blinding dawn. Its warmth on her cheeks felt like a reproach, an insistence that the natural world had carried on, unconcerned with all that she and others had survived.

  In the North, she had grown quickly accustomed to living in rain and knew it as her element. Foggy, impenetrable night and damp shrouds during the day had suited her. The gloomy landscape mirrored her troubled conscience. Here in vivid Shanghai, the colors were too sharp, the voices t
oo loud, the crowds impossible to comprehend. Shirley had been shocked to see that so many still lived, but that was only because those who had died were but a fraction of the sheer mass of humanity in China. The people had somehow carried on, she thought, in spite of the violence, and the mistakes, and the losses.

  On deck, passengers crowded the port side several deep, and she sensed the ship listing that way. Although they were mostly foreigners, she assumed they were leaving behind family and friends and lives they had built here in China. They peered down on the frantic crowd below and counted their blessings. She wondered if many of them were leaving China with a mix of sorrow and elation but also, like her, with shame in their hearts.

  As the first departure horn blared from the bridge and filled the air with electric excitement, she snatched up her valise and slipped into the crowd, in search of Charles. She wove through passengers from amidships to the stern but still didn’t see him and told herself not to panic. Not to fear the worst. She had hardly slept on the train from Peking, her body rigid with worry as she had tried to will herself to make it to the ship safely. But now that she was here, she began to fear that she and her son might not be reunited in China after all.

  So many faces, the bodies pressed close together, all blended into a feverish mass. What if Charles was stuck on shore and unable to make it on time? If she left China without him, she could never forgive herself. As she continued to scour the strangers, she decided that if she did not find her boy soon, she would have no choice but to head down the gangplank before they pulled it up. She would charge back into chaotic Shanghai to find him.

  Her eyes drifted over the many faces until the profile of a young redheaded man came into focus. He had taken up a prime position at the very center of the stern and stood in a jaunty pose. Charles did not notice her, so Shirley had a long moment to soak up the sight of him, her handsome boy who rested a new leather shoe on the railing and tilted his head in a cocky way. With his hair cut and slicked back, he looked so much like his father that Shirley felt a pang of both sorrow and pride. Charles seemed as charming and irrepressible as ever, she thought. At least, she hoped that was true. For now, she was just happy to see him happy.

  Then she noticed her dear friend at Charles’s side. Kathryn’s cheeks, which had always had a rosy plumpness, hung like gray shingles. She had lost weight, they all had, and her gentle, girlish curves had been replaced by sharp contours. Although she wore a new Oriental-cut silk skirt and matching jacket in an elegant orange chrysanthemum print, her hair was tousled, and the bangs had grown jagged. She still wore a familiar hat to the side, though its velvet brim was crushed.

  Shirley was watching them both when Charles suddenly tossed his head forward and spat over the side of the ship. She thought that wasn’t a polite thing to do at the start of a voyage and intended to tell him so but also felt relieved that he still had such boyish habits. Kathryn took Charles’s arm and scolded him playfully. Not the mother figure her son needed, Shirley thought, but not a bad friend to have, either. She began to elbow her way through the crowd to join them.

  “Pardon me,” she said, “I need to see my son. Excuse me, I must get through to be with my son.”

  A mother with a child in tow stepped out of her way, as if understanding the urgency of her request. When Shirley finally stopped before Charles, she lost all words. She stood paralyzed as she let the look on his face wash over her. For a brief moment, he conveyed the love that she had sacrificed so much to feel again. Shirley realized how terribly she had longed to see that light in his eyes.

  But then, in an instant, his expression narrowed, and he squinted down, his forehead forming a tangle of lines. He glared at his mother, quite furious.

  She moved closer anyway and threw her arms around him. She pulled him into her and held on for too long, she knew, but couldn’t help it. Charles felt so sturdy. His body not depleted like hers. He stood tall and with a broad back and wide shoulders that did not bend to hug her in return. He remained stiff, unforgiving, a plank of resistance. He pulled her hands from around his neck and stepped back. She stared up into his face with moist eyes, but he glanced off toward the shore.

  Kathryn placed herself between them and wrapped her skinny arms around Shirley, a bony cheek pressing against hers. As her friend held on in an awkward embrace and almost toppled them both, there was no mistaking the alcohol on her breath. Shirley knew she should be concerned about Kathryn, but she couldn’t take her eyes off Charles.

  “Thank God you made it,” Kathryn said, squeezing Shirley’s hands. “Aren’t we all the worse for wear? I haven’t seen a mirror, but I know I must look dreadful. You poor thing, is that all you have?” She pointed at Shirley’s flimsy valise.

  “The clothes on my back,” Shirley said. “I gave my last two dresses to Chinese women on the train. They had nothing. My suitcase is empty.” Shirley glanced down at her raincoat and rubber boots and realized she still wore the apron under it and Charles’s sweater, which she had refused to take off for days, even as the weather grew warmer in the south.

  “Not to worry,” Kathryn said. “The other ladies and I will share our new outfits. We had a chance to shop in Shanghai before boarding. Everything was contraband, our money going to the White Russian mafia, I’m sure. It felt criminal to contribute to the downfall of this sorry country.” Then she dipped nearer and whispered in Shirley’s ear, “You’ll have to give the ladies another chance. Teetotalers, I’m afraid, but not so bad otherwise. I hope you’ll join me for a little toast up on the main deck? You always were more game than anyone else. I’m sure that’s what made you such an excellent spy.” She pressed a finger to her lips.

  Shirley saw Charles flinch at the mention of spying. She remembered the tantrums he had staged as a child and the silent brewing that had taken place before they occurred. She had always known him so well—sometimes better than he knew himself—and yet not any longer. She couldn’t be sure what he was thinking now.

  “I just wish you’d told me sooner,” Kathryn continued. “I do so love a story.”

  Shirley didn’t bother to correct her friend’s mistaken notion. It was Charles she needed to get to. Shirley reached across to pat his chest with an open palm, but he pulled back, leaving her hand stalled in the air.

  “You must explain absolutely everything once we get away from this dreadful place,” Kathryn carried on. “Charles and I have been trying to piece it together, but now that you’re here, you can fill us in on the true goings-on.”

  Shirley wished Kathryn would stop talking and finally spoke up. “What a handsome new suit, Charles,” she said. “You look sharp.”

  He straightened the lapels of his seersucker but did not reply.

  “I was so worried about you,” Shirley continued. “You have no idea how frightened I was that we might never see each other again.”

  “Don’t be overly dramatic, Mother. We would have found one another eventually, although I was set to make the trip without you. When you didn’t return to the mission, I assumed you’d decided to stay with the Reds.”

  The coolness of his tone rocked Shirley back onto her heels. “No,” she said. “I always wanted us to be together.”

  He offered a sharp laugh. “Is that why you went off on the back of Captain Hsu’s mule?” he asked. “I watched you out my window that night. You looked perfectly content to be leaving.”

  Shirley’s face went hot, and her dizziness returned.

  “Kathryn and I both tried to convince you to leave your clinic,” he continued. “But being Florence Nightingale seemed more important to you.”

  “That’s not true, Charles. You’re what’s important to me.”

  “Or maybe you didn’t want to give up the perks of being a spy? I saw them drop you off down at the port in a fancy black car. Everyone knows those are only used by top officials.”

  “I got here the only way I could,” she said, her gaze lowered and shoulders hunched.

  The crew of Swedi
sh sailors positioned around the ship shouted suddenly in various languages for the passengers to prepare for departure. The gangplank rose with a deafening clatter. The second horn blared, more a warning than a hopeful call. Below in the port, traffic remained stalled as trucks, carts, rickshaws, and tens of thousands of Chinese on foot blocked the way. Sirens and shouting rose from the crush below, frenzied and wild.

  Farther up a boulevard that led away from the ship, Shirley thought she saw the black sedan that had dropped her off as it wedged back through the throng. She would never have made it on time if General Shiga hadn’t arranged her ride. When the train from Peking had finally squealed to a halt in the Shanghai station and the panicked passengers elbowed their way down the iron steps, Shirley had stumbled through great clouds of steam and out onto the platform. She stood stunned and knocked about by the Chinese until a Japanese soldier took her elbow and pulled her through the crowd and into a waiting sedan. As she settled on the slick leather seat, the driver stepped on the gas and cut a swath through the mobs. Chinese of all ages pressed against the car windows.

  At first, she made herself look into their terrified faces. But there were too many of them for her to help, too many to even comprehend. She had squeezed her husband’s passport to her chest and found herself praying. She hardly knew how any longer and wasn’t sure to whom she prayed—God or Jesus, her husband or Captain Hsu. She prayed for forgiveness, even though she felt she did not deserve it. Still, she whispered her prayer and hoped that her words could be heard above the muffled cries beyond the closed windows that kept her safe inside the Japanese car.

  Earlier, on the train, she had been taken to a private section at the back and given a Western-style meal. When the silver dome was removed from her dinner plate, she almost fainted at the sight of steak pooling in its own blood. A formal card accompanied the dish: Compliments of General Shiga. The note written in elegant English penmanship promised that he would look her up the next time he was in the States. Below his name he had written, Princeton, ’15, a final seal of their secret, insidious pact.