Robbie Taggart

by Michael Phillips

  “He was drawn out of the water to new life and purpose. . . .”

  Of course the doctor had the tendency to overdo things a bit, adding dramatic religious overtones to everything he said. But as he stood there in a new country, in a place he’d never been before, with no future to look toward, the words somehow seemed appropriate. Though Robbie could barely grasp their superficial significance, much less the more profound spiritual implications, he could yet sense the possibilities all around him.

  Possibilities for adventure—yes. But there was something more here. He could feel it! He wasn’t sure what it was, or whether it would all be to his liking. But as a man always welcoming newness, Robbie Taggart was ever ready to step boldly forward to meet whatever came his way.

  31

  The Rabbit and the Swan

  The evening was warm and sultry, but a light breeze offset the intensity of the summer heat.

  Looking about, Robbie saw a small cluster of buildings—three in all. These made up the mission compound, though they were not walled off as was generally the case with missions. They were, however, set apart by about a stone’s throw from the nearest row of village houses. The mission buildings in construction were very much like those of the village, rustic with an air of poverty, and each with the traditional pagoda-style roof that stood in peculiar contrast to the large wooden cross adorning the largest of the three buildings.

  The village itself had grown up around the juncture of two streams, and most of the houses fronted these waterways. In reality they were small rivers on which the villagers traveled by boat, and on whose banks the women pounded out their wash. The mission stood on the northern bank of the larger of these, and being at the farthest end, Robbie could stand on the bridge over this stream—some seventy five feet long, and ten to twelve feet above the level of the water at its midpoint—and command a fine view of the entire village. It was quiet all around him. A woman was carrying a pail of water on a small wooden yoke over her shoulder, a few children occasionally darted in and out among the houses, and down the river a man was mooring his junk to a stone platform in front of his house. Over it all as if from the starry twilight above, and through the melodic sounds of the stream tumbling by him, a peace prevailed over the place, unbroken even by the faint barking of a dog somewhere in the distance.

  Robbie wandered toward the middle of the bridge. It was itself as rustic and seemingly flimsy as the fairy-tale houses in this picture-book setting. But though it creaked a bit beneath his weight, it was sound and had been so for years on end. Robbie looked down at the dark ripples passing by underneath him. He loved the water, and his near-fatal experience on the sea would never alter that.

  On the opposite bank of the river, about a hundred and fifty yards away, Robbie saw Wallace conversing with another man. Robbie would have given it scarcely more than a glance except that the doctor’s companion was rather alarming in appearance to pass off casually. He stood in complete and total contrast to the peaceful village surroundings, and, even from Robbie’s limited contact with the villagers, he could see in an instant that this man did not fit. He was a brawny Oriental, garbed in leather breeches and vest with high-top heavy boots. His shaven head sat upon a thick neck and was topped with an ill-fitting cloth cap.

  But what alarmed Robbie most was the dagger and pistol strapped to his belt. He immediately thought back to Chou’s men, for the image was identical. Could they have possibly traced him here? But why would they have bothered? He meant nothing to them. Yet what else could such a man want in a place like this?

  Whatever the answer to that question, one thing was apparent—Wallace would not easily allow him to have his way if it was in conflict with the purposes of the mission. Even in the poor light, Robbie could see the doctor’s austere features as stern as ever. However, there was with them something of the beseeching quality as well. It was very possible the missionary was trying to spare his flock from the attentions of some marauding gang of bandits. Whatever the case, even in the short acquaintance Robbie had had with this place, he realized what a desecration it would be for such a man as Chou to touch it.

  He then looked up and down the river, trying to pull his attention away from the disquieting scene—he had had enough of discord for a good while and desired only to drink in the tranquil setting all about him. A saying he had once heard about “borrowing trouble” came to him.

  He could not help smiling.

  If there was any trouble, it would find him soon enough without his having to dream it up from a simple conversation between two men off in the distance. He let himself relax, and the quiet feeling he had sensed earlier washed over him once more. He forgot about ships and cities and pubs, but in a restful way was perfectly content to be right where he was at that moment. He found himself wondering what these people were like who had spent their entire lives here, beside these two streams that emptied farther down into the great Yangtze River.

  At length he felt constrained to return to the mission lest his benefactors grow concerned over his absence. Just as he did so, a figure stepped onto the bridge from the south bank, apparently coming from the village on the other side. Not wanting to appear rude, he paused. The girl who approached him was of diminutive stature and delicately featured, dressed in a light blue ankle-length skirt and white, short-sleeved Oriental jacket, both of a homespun cotton. Her thick black hair was pulled back from her lightly tanned face, plaited into a silky braid that reached the length of her back. Her oriental facial features at first appeared somewhat taut and drawn, as if she were in the midst of some unpleasant dilemma. But when she saw Robbie, these softened into a warm smile. Robbie returned the greeting.

  “Good evening,” she said in perfect, though accented English. “It is good to see our Moses restored to health enough to get out of his bed.”

  Robbie had nearly forgotten the two biblical appellations the doctor had given them. But the first thing that came to Robbie’s mind was that this girl before him was certainly the owner of the striking voice he had heard in the night. He felt suddenly shy and awkward.

  “Yes, I am feeling much better, thanks to the doctor,” he replied, “and perhaps also to you . . . ?”

  She colored slightly. “I did not think you would remember. I did very little, really. I was merely a sentinel instructed to run for my father should your condition worsen. We thought you would die when they brought you in; you were nearly dead already. My father prayed over each of you for an hour after he got you dried and to bed.”

  “Your father?” queried Robbie.

  “The doctor.”

  “Dr. Wallace?”

  She smiled again, more amused by Robbie’s reaction than disturbed. “Yes,” she said, “in every way but by birth.”

  “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean—”

  “It is a common response. But I am honored to call him father, and I hope he is proud to call me daughter.”

  She paused and looked out upon the lazy current of the stream. In many respects her eyes were like the doctor’s, despite the fact that they had no common blood. They were intense like his, looking out on the landscape as if they perceived so much more than simply what presented itself on the surface. But they also contained a kind of serenity, an easy joy he had not readily noted in Dr. Wallace’s incisive gaze.

  Robbie could tell she took pleasure in what she saw. But when she spoke again, he realized it was not about the countryside alone that she had been thinking. “Please forgive me,” she said, turning her gaze upon Robbie. “I have made you uncomfortable.”

  “No,” he replied quickly. “Well, at least not so much that I cannot recover. I could have been more tactful—after all, I am the stranger here.”

  “Then I hope you will not always remain so. I am Hsi-chen1.”

  She bowed slightly, then smiled. “Welcome to Wukiang. May you find here, as your Western saying goes, a home away from home, as long as you are with us.”

  “That is the only kind of hom
e I have ever known,” said Robbie. “But I am afraid I may have some difficulty getting used to this place, for I am used to a bit more activity.”

  “Yes, Wukiang must seem rather subdued to a world traveler such as yourself. But there is a peacefulness in this little valley that may grow on you, as my father puts it, or grow in you, as my people would say. Who can tell, you may end up liking it and want to stay forever.”

  “I can hardly imagine any place doing that to a wanderer like me.”

  “We have a tale of just such a thing happening, and not far from this very place.”

  “I love a good story,” said Robbie.

  “You see! Already you have something in common with us, for China is the land of proverbs and legends.”

  She paused, and when she spoke again her voice took on a deeper, more resonant quality, and became imperceptibly more formal. It carried the tone of a storyteller.

  This is a legend about an occurrence that took place long ago in old China when the beasts could speak and the birds had voices, and when some say that God had given of His wisdom to be lived out among the animals so that it might be passed on to us in ways sometimes difficult to see. The story is of a rabbit, Liu Ken, who had lived his whole life in the Hill country. One day he was out foraging for food and he traveled farther than usual from his home because the ground had been stubborn that year and food was scarce. So intent was he on his hunt that he had traveled many hours before he realized he was in a strange country. The soft, wet ground first alerted Liu Ken to his folly, and when he looked up he saw streams and lakes and marshes, but no hills! Frightened, he hopped this way and that, but he had no idea which path to take that would lead him home. In despair, he sat down upon his hind legs and wept.

  Now there lived in a nearby lake a swan named Yu Hua, and she heard the quiet sound of Liu Ken’s weeping, and swam to the edge of her lake to see what it was all about.

  “Please, sir,” she said kindly, “do you need some help? You look very sad.”

  Liu Ken wiped a furry paw across his teary eyes and said, “I am lost and very far from my home, and I do not know how I will ever get back.”

  “I am sorry for you,” said Yu Hua, “but I know no other country but this, and I cannot travel far from my lake or I would help you find your home.”

  “What shall I do, dear Swan?”

  “You are welcome to come to my house,” said Yu Hua. “You can rest and have supper and perhaps things will look better then.”

  “Where is your house?” asked Liu Ken, his crying now stopped, but still somewhat apprehensive.

  “Right here by the side of the lake. It is very cozy, not too hot or too dry, and there is shelter from the wind in the lee of the mulberry bushes.”

  “But I do not like water,” protested Liu Ken. “Rabbits were not made to live near the wet places.”

  “I am sad to say it is all I have to offer,” said Yu Hua. “Sometimes when you are far from home, it is necessary to change your ways.”

  Liu Ken was a polite little rabbit, and so he went with Yu Hua, both so as not to hurt the nice swan’s feelings, and because he didn’t know what else to do. At first he felt rather out of place in that watery home. But after many days he found that food was plentiful there and that even in winter there was no snow or ice to make the ground barren.

  He even learned to swim, a great rarity among rabbits!

  As time passed Liu Ken wondered how he could ever have lived in the hot, dry hills, and he gave up looking for his old home, because he knew he could never again be happy so far away from the water. Many years went by and one day Liu Ken awoke, feeling very odd indeed. When his dear friend Yu Hua saw him she could only sing with joy. But he could get no explanation from her. He went down to the edge of the lake as was his morning custom, bent toward the water for a refreshing swim, then stopped in amazement. The reflection that stared up at him was not that of a brown, furry rabbit.

  Liu Ken had turned into a grand white swan!

  When Hsi-chen finished her story, Robbie gently laughed with approval. “It’s wonderful!” he said. “And well told! We will have to see if it is the same for sailors cast out of water as it is for rabbits put into it.”

  Hsi-chen laughed with him—an unassuming laugh, almost humble, but musical, and full of merriment.

  Then they continued their walk back across the bridge toward the north shore and the mission. As they went, Hsi-chen pointed out various interesting features of the place and told him more about the village of Wukiang and the peasants who lived there. It was clear she possessed a special fondness for the place, and Robbie could not help but recall to mind Jamie’s love when she spoke of Donachie. He was surprised to learn that Hsi-chen had not been born in Wukiang as she said nearly all the other inhabitants had. She had come to the village some thirteen years ago, at the age of nine. She and her mother were alone and homeless and had sought refuge in the mission.

  “What happened to your home?” asked Robbie.

  She turned pensive a moment, showing that same look he had first seen in her; then she said lightly, “One lengthy story in an evening is enough.”

  By now they had come into the mission compound and Robbie started to turn in the direction of the hospital. He considered inquiring about the man he had seen with Wallace, but on second thought decided it might be meddlesome of him. If it had anything to do with him, he’d find out quickly enough.

  “Please,” said Hsi-chen, “if you are not too tired by your outing, my family would be honored to have you join us for our evening meal.”

  “Is it . . . expected of me? And there is my friend—?”

  “Your friend is welcome also. More than an expectation, it would be a pleasure.”

  Robbie had hardly anticipated encountering someone so intriguing in this provincial little peasant village—especially after his first impression of the mission left by the austere Dr. Isaiah Wallace. He thus entered the third building of the compound at the far end from the hospital rather buoyantly, anticipating the pleasure of new faces, and possibly more interesting tales.

  1. Pronounced she-chen.

  32

  Dinner at the Compound

  The moment Robbie entered the front room of the living quarters of the mission staff, he noticed the striking blend of Oriental and Western furnishings. Woven bamboo-leaf floor coverings, one or two lovely silk tapestries and bean-oil wick lamps, combined with three handmade rocking chairs, small tables upon which the lamps stood, and two large bookshelves, all of which together gave the place a warm but uncluttered atmosphere. Whether the room was simple by design or by poverty, Robbie could not tell. He decided it was most likely somewhere in between; for though the furnishings were nice enough, they were old and well-worn and used. Even the tapestries were frayed and fading.

  At the far end of this large room sat a long dining table, also handmade. Eight chairs, four on either side, lined the table, which was already set for dinner.

  “Please be seated,” said Hsi-chen decorously, indicating one of the rocking chairs. “I must go and give assistance to my mother.”

  Instead of sitting immediately, Robbie ambled over to the bookshelves and scanned the titles, more for something to do than from interest. They were mostly theology, with a few historical works, and one Chinese grammar. This last he took down, but, quickly thumbing through the pages, discovered that he would need more than a book to teach him the language. He was about to replace it when Wallace entered the room.

  “I see you have found our meager library,” he said. “I have a few more volumes in my office, and if you are of a mind to, you may avail yourself of them, Mr. Taggart.”

  “I don’t really read much,” admitted Robbie.

  “There is much wisdom to be found in books,” replied Wallace, striding to the bookshelf. “However, there is often heresy also, as well as human error. One must read with discerning spirit. The wisest choice is always God’s own inspired Word.”

  “Ye
s . . . yes, you are quite right there,” came Robbie’s obligatory, awkward reply.

  Wallace responded with a smile, the first Robbie had seen from the man. It was by no means a ready, natural smile, yet it could not be called forced. It appeared sincere, but like everything else about him, it was methodical, well thought out.

  “You need not strike an air of forced agreement with me, Mr. Taggart,” he said quietly and without rebuke. “I am as capable of accepting an unbeliever into my home as a brother. I would not be in China otherwise. I have sensed from our first meeting that you have stepped into alien territory. There is no shame or wrong in that. The wrong would be in hiding it, and trying to be something you are not, and thus losing a great opportunity to discover the truth for yourself. Does not the Word of God say, ‘How then shall they call on him in whom they have not believed? and how shall they believe in him of whom they have not heard? and how shall they hear without a preacher?’ So you see, if you hide your disbelief, how will you ever come to believe?”

  “Well, I do believe!” replied Robbie defensively, misunderstanding the depth of Wallace’s words. “I’m no heathen, for heaven’s sake!”

  “For heaven’s sake, I sincerely hope you are not,” said Wallace. “There may, however, be something other than belief as you are acquainted with it and sheer paganism—something considerably more personal and—” but before he could finish his thought, the front door opened, and their attention was momentarily diverted in that direction.

  The new arrival was a middle-aged English woman whom Wallace introduced as Elizabeth Trumbull, the mission schoolteacher. She was very tall, in fact, nearly as tall as Robbie himself. Her shoulders drooped forward, the obvious result of many years of attempting to minimize her height. Her brown hair was streaked with gray, pulled back in a tight bun. Robbie guessed immediately, even before she spoke, that she was English, not only by her clothing—the only Western attire he had yet seen—but mostly as a result of her bearing, which was very proper and stiff, and would have fit perfectly into any Victorian drawing room. It seemed, however, rather out of keeping here in this faraway setting. Yet her smile was pleasant and friendly, and her handshake firm.