Dead Man's Gold and Other Stories

by Paul Yee

  Chung reached the New World and saw Chinese waiting at the docks with cloth-tied bundles. When he asked directions to the newest gold fields, the men laughed.

  “Young fellow, haven’t you heard? The gold rush is finished! All the gold is gone, shipped to bank vaults in big cities. All you’ll find here is gray rock and wild animals. You’d better head home with us.”

  But Chung couldn’t. His parents had borrowed large sums to buy his passage. They expected good news. If he returned empty-handed, the villagers would label him a failure and a greater coward than ever.

  He found his way to Chinatown, to a store that rented plank-board beds to travelers.

  “Uncle,” he said, “is it true there is no gold left?”

  The storekeeper nodded grimly, but Chung insisted, “There must be work here.”

  “A little. Were you a farmer’s son?”

  He nodded.

  “Then there is nothing for you.”

  The young man bristled. “Why do you say that?”

  “You lived on a farm where sunshine warmed your back, did you not? You stood tall and gazed across green and golden fields, did you not?”

  “I did.”

  “Well, this job lies deep underground, with foul air and no light. Human skin turns pale and black at the same time. Every month, sometimes every week, a man is killed. The work is very dangerous.”

  Chung quelled his panic and stammered, “I’m not afraid.”

  A slow ferry chugged up the island, and a train carried him to the mine. Through the trees he saw flashes of sparkling inland water. Then he heard the jangle of bells, tinny but urgent as a temple on fire. Chung’s heart began to pound.

  He stumbled off the train into the stench of rotting eggs. When his eyes stopped watering, he saw the ground crisscrossed by railway tracks running helter-skelter — into a yawning cave, into sheds with long rolling tables, and down toward a harbor. Ornery locomotives rumbled by, dragging carts of shiny black rock. Their heavy wheels bit into steel and screeched until loads were dumped with a deafening roar. Chimneys poked from brick buildings and spewed storm clouds of steam and smoke. From the looming darkness of the mine echoed a metallic thunder —clank, clank, clank, clank — as if a monstrous heart throbbed deep down there.

  That night, Chung did not sleep. The hissing steam and cranking machines went on without stop. His hands grew cold and stiff as the hour for going underground drew near.

  In the morning, he went to the cage that dropped into the mine, but he trembled so badly that his hammer and hand-drill rattled like a teacup and saucer. When the miners hooted, Chung grit his teeth and said to himself, “I would give anything to be brave!”

  He gripped the iron bars as pulleys squealed like pigs being slaughtered. During the descent, the air cooled and dampened and turned sour. Above him, the shaft entrance shrank to a pinprick, and the men’s faces turned gray, then black before vanishing altogether. A familiar fear gripped his body. No one heard him mutter, “I would give anything not to be frightened!”

  Finally, the cage stopped and the men were sent into a maze of low tunnels. Chung donned a lamp-hat reeking of fish oil. He crawled through mud, under wooden beams and past carts dragged by weary mules. His fingers groped for the miners ahead.

  I have arrived in hell, he thought. Hundreds of ghosts must hover here at their death sites. Again he muttered, “I would give anything to have courage!”

  The coal seam sank deep into the ground, so the miners lay on their bellies and aimed their tools by touch. At the slightest creak, Chung froze, expecting the roof to collapse, expecting to be buried alive. But nearby miners calmly continued working. He wanted to scream, to break free and out of the belly of this beast.

  That night, an exhausted Chung dreamed of the cage dropping into the mine. But this time, he didn’t tremble or clutch at the bars. To his surprise, he threw out his chest and sucked in gulps of air like the winner of a long race.

  A miner with a bushy mustache clapped his shoulder.

  “Do I know you?” Chung asked.

  The other man smiled. “Friend, you called for me today. Earlier, you offered to give anything for courage. So I am removing your fear.”

  “But who are you?” Chung asked.

  “Me? I am all the miners who have died here. I am their courage and humor, the spirit that defied all danger and all greedy bosses.”

  “Do you help all miners?”

  “No.” He laughed bitterly. “They find my price too high.”

  “What do you charge?”

  “I require your body to replace mine, which is rotting away under a fallen tunnel. I need a strong new resting place for my soul and all the memories I carry. Is this agreeable to you?”

  “How long do I have?”

  “Until you take a bride.”

  Chung thought for a moment. If he didn’t steel himself to earn some money here, he would never get a bride anyway. So he shouted, “Agreed!”

  After that, Chung marched eagerly to work each day. He never floundered or lost his way underground. He tracked seams of coal deep into the earth and sniffed for rock gas that could easily explode. Each day, he ripped out cartfuls of coal and sent them up as roving packs of rats nudged his tools and meal bucket.

  In the meantime, Chung sent his wages home. After each remittance, a letter would arrive from his parents, saying they were proud and the other villagers were jealous. For the first time in his life, Chung walked with his head held high.

  He also acquired a reputation for being lucky. When water flooded a tunnel and drowned two miners, Chung escaped through an adjacent passage. When a roof collapsed and crushed several men, a beam fell over Chung and saved him. When a laden cart suddenly broke loose and hurtled toward his group, only Chung squeezed out of the way. Soon all the miners clamored to work near him, thinking the gods had blessed him. But he knew the mustached spirit was protecting him only to ensure his body would remain intact and healthy.

  In the bunkhouse, the miners played cards and gambled between shifts. One night, after a late session of dominoes, Chung dozed and dreamed of the miner with the bushy mustache.

  “Young man, you’ve done well all these years,” the ghost said. “Haven’t you saved enough money for a fancy wedding? Isn’t it time to do your family duty?”

  “No!” Chung bolted upright. He looked around the crowded bunkhouse and heard the sounds of men sleeping.

  These are my friends, he thought. They trust me and follow me through the tunnels. In this country, I am a man among men.

  Later that day, he received a letter from his mother: “Son, you have sent us much money and we are very grateful. Now send yourself home to get married.”

  Chung dispatched a letter saying he could not abandon his workmates.

  Months later, his mother sent word and ordered his return. “The longer you wait,” she stated, “the less choice of brides you will have.”

  He crumpled the letter and threw it away.

  That very night, the miner with the bushy mustache interrupted his dreams and said, “Listen to your mother. It is time to get married. You cannot defy your destiny, nor can you escape our agreement.”

  Chung groaned loudly, and his bunkmates woke him to break the nightmare.

  His mother’s words grew sterner. “You are our only child,” said one letter. “We raised you with love and attention. All we ask in return is respect for tradition. Can we depend on you to do the right thing?”

  Another letter wailed, “Your father lies in bed all day, too ashamed to meet his friends. Those men carry their grandchildren through the village, swinging them along and singing. They sit by the fishpond under the banyan tree. How can you neglect your father thus?”

  One day, thunder tore through the underground tunnels. Chung heard timber cracking, men screaming for help and the braying
of panicked mules. Far above, a shrill whistle summoned help. Grit rained down and extinguished his lantern. He ran toward the exit, but it was blocked. His bare hands tugged at rock, but the slabs weighed too much.

  Trapped, he dropped to the ground. As usual, he felt no fear, confident that his guardian spirit would protect him. Nor did he smell the after-damp, the odorless, poisonous gas released by explosions. His eyelids felt heavy and soon they fell shut forever.

  Days later, when the mine bosses announced that they were stopping the search for Chung’s body, the other miners shook their heads and sighed, “Nobody’s luck can last forever.”

  A few days later, another letter came for Chung. His friends opened it and read, “Son, we could wait no longer. Since you refuse to return, we have selected a bride for you and conducted a marriage ceremony. Your new wife is now living in our house, sleeping in your bed and eagerly awaiting you. When you come home, she will greet you with respect.”

  THREE

  Sky-High

  IN THE SOUTHERN city of Canton, any guest to Shu’s home would have instantly seen how rich this family was, for its front courtyard contained a grove of trees, none of which bore fruit. Shu’s ancestors had planted them for their natural beauty — the rugged bends of sturdy trunks, the elegant silhouette of high-reaching branches — unlike practical folk who cultivated trees for edible fruit. On nights of the full moon, the entire family stood outside and admired the silvery disk floating over the leafy skyline. In the summer, servants faithfully watered the roots, and in the fall, they cleared leaves from beneath the twists of drying branches.

  As youngest son, Shu enjoyed a long childhood. Eldest Brother followed Father in the family business, Second Brother studied for the Imperial exams, and Third Brother attended the military academy. But Shu strolled among the trees, read poetry in their shade and climbed them to hide from the servants. The family took care of all his needs, and his time was spent with friends at teahouses, hillside villas and calligraphy contests.

  Then Father died suddenly. The family conducted a stately funeral attended by high officials and powerful merchants. Shu performed the rites solemnly, for he had respected his father.

  Then, after the rituals were finished, the family discovered Father had concealed enormous debts in every city and country he had visited. When the banks, money­lenders and gambling-hall operators clamored in the courts for repayment, the family was forced to sell everything: the business and its warehouses, the mansion and its trees, all the fine furniture and everybody’s personal belongings.

  The brothers took jobs to feed their wives and children, but Shu had no skills. He avoided his friends who sneered at his bad luck. He wanted to leave town, but his father’s reputation stretched far and wide, inside China and out.

  One of the few places where his family hadn’t done business was Gold Mountain, and that become Shu’s destination. Off he sailed, with only the clothes on his back and a book of poems rescued from the family library.

  In Chinatown, the job boss declared, “All I have are logging jobs.”

  He outfitted Shu in flannel shirt, stiff denim pants and caulk boots, but the new clothes could not make him stronger or bigger. Skinny and pale, Shu wriggled like a worm emerging from mucky soil. At the docks he met the crew. They saw by his words and his walk that he had fallen from an upper class. His smooth skin revealed he had never worked or suffered.

  They sailed up the coast through a gray mist as rough waves pummeled the company boat. Craggy cliffs covered with forests rose into view. The boat came to a deep bay where trees marched to the waterline. Each one was so tall and thick that ten men with arms linked could barely circle its trunk. The trees were straight as pillars at a grand temple, with the sky above forming its roof.

  Never before had Shu seen such proud growth. China had razed its forests for farms and cities long ago, and the trees at his family home were puny saplings in comparison.

  Moved by this grandeur, he recited two lines of poetry:

  “Trees along heavens edge grow neat as grass

  And land gleams moon-like while waters pass.”

  The crew chortled and tossed him into the saltwater like a sack of garbage. Shu sputtered and flailed helplessly, for he couldn’t swim. The men chuckled as he bobbed up and down.

  “Let’s see if rich boys sink as fast as poor ones,” they said.

  Finally the cook threw out a rope and Shu grabbed it.

  In the forest, he wielded a long ax while balanced on a springboard jammed into the tree’s trunk. He splashed kerosene onto long saws to make them slide through the unyielding wood. When a tree fell, he hacked off branches and sawed them into sections. A single tree created four or more days of work before its logs hit the water to be towed to a mill.

  The Pacific Northwest was cold and wet. Dark clouds pushed in from the sea and rain fell for days, even weeks. Shu struggled to walk in cracked and leaky boots as sheets of water washed his face and stung his eyes. When the rain stopped, the puddles bred mosquitoes — thousands and thousands of buzzing pests, all thirsty for human blood. Desperately, he rubbed grease and wax and soot onto his skin to thwart them, but the insects sneaked into the tents, drawn by lamplight and the smell of wet socks.

  Thick calluses erupted on Shu’s hands, and his skin grew red and hard from bites. His body ached as muscles filled his arms and shoulders. At night, he took a lantern and tramped into the woods to read aloud, letting the rhymes and images of poetry relax him.

  The men heard him reading alone and imitated him, but chanted jumpy rhythms to spoil the lines. At mealtimes, they mimicked how he held his rice bowl, used his chopsticks and pulled fish bones from his teeth instead of spitting them out.

  Shu saw their mocking faces but his ears focused elsewhere: the tide washing over shoreline sand, the fluttering of birds’ wings at treetops, or the toot of a ship passing far out at sea.

  Meanwhile, the loggers pushed inland, and the greased path that took the logs to the water grew longer.

  One day, as Shu swung his ax into a tree, he heard strange sounds. It wasn’t the seagulls cawing and gliding overhead or the distant grunts of grizzly bears. The sounds were deep groans, long sighs and sharp yelps of pain. They came loudest after each thwack of the ax. Both human and animal at once, the sounds chilled Shu to the bone.

  Across from him, his partner showed no signs of distress, so Shu kept quiet. All day long, he chopped and sawed. The sounds grew louder, as if the entire forest were moaning and suffering. But the crew worked on, as if deaf.

  That night in camp, Shu hardly tasted his rice and fish. After tea, he grabbed his book and lantern and went into the forest. The round faces of stumps caught the moons light as tree sap oozed out and dripped down the bark like teardrops. All he heard was the swish of waves from the beach.

  From his book, he read aloud:

  “Along seven clear strings,

  Silent pines are sliced by winds

  With old songs long adored

  That no one performs any more.”

  When he had finished, the leaves above him swayed and rustled, even though the night air hung heavy and still. He trudged deeper into the woods, to the biggest tree there. He had named it Sky-High. Its trunk was twice as thick as the largest tree he had felled. Shu had counted the rings on that stump, and now calculated that Sky-High was at least two thousand years old. Fellow trees guarded it closely, so he couldn’t see through to the top. In the presence of this grand and natural tower, he felt enormous peace, as if he were at home reading in the family mansion.

  Back at camp, the men were snoring, but the cook was waiting. He bent close and whispered, “Did you hear sounds in the forest today?”

  Shu nodded. “What was it?”

  The cook looked around to make sure no one was listening.

  “After my first season in the bush,” he said, “a wise man told me it
was the forest weeping.”

  “Like the sap running out of the stumps!” exclaimed Shu.

  “Trees are living things, and the more we chop, the greater the pain of the forest. I used to be a logger but I quit. That’s why I cook now.”

  “I’ll do the same,” declared Shu, but the older man shook his head.

  “Won’t matter,” he said grimly. “The company will hire someone else. There’s easy money here, so trees will keep falling.”

  “We’re killers!”

  “No, we’re men with families to feed.”

  That night, Shu couldn’t sleep with the sounds of the forest’s moaning. He knew it was only a matter of time before the loggers reached his friend Sky-High and chopped it down.

  That must not happen, he thought.

  Then came a big holiday, and the company boat took the men to town. Shu offered to stay behind to guard the supplies.

  Once the boat had sailed out of sight, he dragged the axes and saws to deep water and let them sink. With several trips, he emptied the camp of all its sharpened steel. Then he punctured all the freshwater barrels and let the drinking water trickle away.

  Shu packed some food, planning to trek down the coast. Before leaving, he visited Sky-High one last time.

  He looked up at the perfect lines of the tree. He breathed in the aromatic sweetness and wished he could catch the view from its top.

  When the loggers returned and discovered the destruction, they stomped through the forest, vowing to beat Shu senseless. The company boat took men and torches to search the coastline.

  They discovered his crumpled body at the foot of the giant tree, and thought he had fallen while climbing to hide from them. The men cursed and hurled dishes around, but nothing could be done. Soon the company boat ferried them away.

  A year later, a new crew arrived at the site and tried to chop down Sky-High. But the loggers ran away, badly frightened. At first, these men refused to discuss what had happened, but slowly a strange story emerged.