by Virginia Pye
Although Grace tried to concentrate on observing him and keeping herself comfortable, she soon noticed a surprising number of people out walking on the dirt roads that crisscrossed the desert plains. She wondered where on earth they were all going. On their backs they carried great bundles of what appeared to be bedding or clothing, with pots and pans dangling down. Weapons or tools of the field sagged in their weary hands. Children shuffled along, not even lifting their eyes when she passed. That was most unusual because she was normally a magnet for the young. But these families appeared too burdened to look up or speak.
"Where are they going?" she asked Mai Lin.
"The fields are no good anymore. They go to Fenchow-fu or other towns to find work."
"But there isn't any work in Fenchow-fu. There are already too many beggars on the streets."
Mai Lin offered a tsking sound.
"They should just stay put," Grace said. "They'd be better off."
"Robbers now cover the countryside. But robbers also hide in
alleys in the city. They don't care where they slit your throat," Mai Lin said with a chuckle.
"How awful!" Grace said. "You must not say things like that Mai Lin. These good families will surely reach their destinations."
Mai Lin shrugged, and they carried on. Grace thought it better not to dwell upon the fates of the poor Chinese. It was terrible, but what could be done? She had first arrived in Shansi during the drought of 1907, when the Reverend had been mightily preoccupied with famine relief. He worked passionately day and night to secure financial support from expatriate Americans and congregations back home to help the starving Chinese. He quickly raised enough to build the roads that brought in the Red Cross and shipments of food from American companies to the villages. In one of their first encounters, he had described to Grace the grateful Chinese children stuffing wads of Wrigley's Juicy Fruit gum into their mouths and how he had frantically instructed them not to swallow. Of course other food was delivered as well, and then, when the rain eventually came, those same newly constructed roads then carried crops from the fields to the marketplace more swiftly than ever. It had all worked out in the end. Except that this famine of the present year seemed every bit as bad and appeared unending.
Nonetheless, Grace had admired the Reverend so during that difficult time. Her passion for him had grown tenfold in her breast. When he had finally looked up from his efforts, she had believed it an actual miracle that he professed to feel the same way about her. She hadn't allowed herself to believe he'd even noticed her in the two months since her arrival. The two were married a fortnight later on a gloriously rainy day in the small mission chapel. Falling raindrops had been far better than the usual confetti or rice tossed onto the shoulders of bride and groom. And while some in the mission had been surprised at the sudden nuptials, such was the swiftness and surety of their love for one another.
Grace had never been happier, although her subsequent explanatory letter home took some careful crafting. Her mother's agitated return telegram had brought scalding tears to Grace's eyes, but after several more exchanges, eventually a heavy box of handsome sterling place settings arrived from the best jewelry store in Cleveland, and the rift with her family was mended. Yet further evidence that everything worked out in the end.
Now she gazed at her husband, who remained absorbed in his book. It worried her that he had grown inward since those earlier, more purposeful days. But she supposed that was what personal tragedy wrought. What was the starvation and death of thousands when your own child was lost to you?
Grace tried to shake this sad thought from her mind. She forced herself to speak up in a bright tone. "I believe you must have memorized the Good Book by now, Reverend."
He looked across at her and blinked.
"Don't you think you have studied enough for one day?" she asked. "The Lord is not going to quiz you on each and every chapter and verse."
The Reverend lifted the leather-bound volume in his hand and actually smiled. "This is not the Good Book, my dear, but ancient Chinese poetry."
"Is it really?" she asked. "How absolutely astounding."
"Yes, it is. They have a knack for simplicity that the Romantics
missed altogether. And they do not flinch from the hard things in life. I find their melancholia to be the perfect mirror to this desolate setting. Would you care to read some?"
Grace let out an embarrassed titter but then nodded most gratefully. Her husband was more surprising by the minute. She thought she could ride on with him for days if he was to treat her thusly, including her in his unusual passions. He passed her the book of Chinese poetry, but she did not open it.
"Go on," he said. "Read."
"I cannot," she replied.
"Why?"
"I have not learned their written language."
He stared at her with horror. "Every day in our new school we teach the illiterate Chinese children, and yet you do not know how to read the language of the land in which you now live? Why haven't you attended those classes?"
Grace bit her bottom lip.
"I do not understand why women refuse to be educated but insist instead on filling their minds with frivolous things. Ladies care more about their hemlines and hairdos than about the actual meaning of life. Here, hand me back the volume."
She passed him the book with a limp hand and thought that would be the end of it. He would punish her again with his silence. But the Reverend cleared his throat and commenced to read aloud. His voice rang out as they rode until a late-afternoon sun crept over the plains. She studied her husband in all his grandeur, although she could not help but be curious about the various specific accessories that made him quite so startling a figure now. Whatever were all those things hanging from him, especially the pouch with the twin golden dragons that sloped down from the red sash and slapped against the side of the donkey with each step? Grace bent slightly toward it and wondered at the perfect orblike shape inside the satchel. What on earth did he have in there? she wondered. But she did not dare to interrupt, although she could hardly concentrate on the meaning of the verses for all the love and admiration welling up in her for her Rev erend.
She was also distracted by a continual stabbing pain that rose up from below her swollen belly. And the desert dust didn't agree one bit with her lungs. More and more often, Mai Lin had to slow their animal while Grace coughed madly into her handkerchief. Mai Lin would have to wash blood from the used ones that evening. But the Reverend read on, mesmerized and mesmerizing in the shimmering light. He remained oblivious to her various complaints, and Grace was simply grateful to be at his side.
As they reached the foothills at dusk, bells rang out from the hollows. On many of his previous trips— both those to encourage the outlying churches in his first half-dozen years in China and his more recent ones of the previous months in search of their son— the Reverend had written her long letters in his fine cursive. For pages he had carried on about the beauty of this sort of setting. She had long pictured it in her mind. His letters, she realized now, had perfectly captured the strange grace of this distant land.
The Reverend finally closed the book of poetry.
"So, what do you think, Mai Lin?" he asked. "Superior words from your ancient compatriots, yes?"
"I know these poems. There is much wisdom in them for those who care to open their clogged ears and listen."
Grace thought she sensed the older woman's stare upon her. She felt it was not her fault that she had become so distracted by life, and she promised herself she would try to do better in the realm of selfeducation. But for now, as the chilly day slipped into colder evening, she could not help being preoccupied with her husband's state of mind: he appeared to be blooming to life again out here. Now that he was on the trail, his dark mood had lifted. She grasped more fully that he was one man in the Christian compound and an altogether different and happier one out here in this mysterious countryside.
A camel train passed, and t
he Reverend had encouraging words for the drivers. He raised his hat and cheerfully flagged them on. He then instructed Ahcho to carry on ahead with Grace and Mai Lin while he circled back. Grace looked over her shoulder to see her husband's head bowed in conversation with one of the camel drivers. When the Reverend rejoined their party, he reached across and patted her hand.
"The fellow knew my mission even before I opened my mouth. The whole country is our eyes and ears now, although he insisted on calling me Great Lord Ghost Man. Imagine such foolishness."
She was grateful for her husband's determination to find their son but did not say so, for she feared she might have to choke back tears. She was grateful for so much, even in the midst of such tragedy. Pain shot up her spine again, and it took all her concentration not to have her smile collapse into a grimace.
"Do you hear those chimes?" he asked as they rose higher up the hillside. "Those used to emanate from a temple, but now they toll in the tower of our newest little chapel. Can you imagine the joy it must bring to the deprived coolie after a long day of work?"
She smiled on but still could not speak as she witnessed her husband of old returning to her. He appeared quite joyous and gay out here. Grace couldn't help wondering if she would have to become itinerant as well to enjoy his fine company.
Sixteen
A t nightfall, they entered a desolate village where the Reverend intended for them to spend the night. The sole, rutted road led to an inn where a toothless innkeeper greeted them. He wiped his dirty hands upon his apron and trotted forward from his hovel. The man had his barefoot son lead their donkey drivers and animals to a stable while he called back through the open door of the inn for his wife to prepare mein for their supper.
"Minister John Wesley returns!" the innkeeper said with a hollow grin. He gathered the Reverend's hands into his own and shook them vigorously.
As the Reverend clutched the man's shoulder and squeezed, Grace could hardly believe the innkeeper had called her husband by his given name. Standing nearby, Ahcho had noticed it, too, and looked ready to reprimand the fellow, but the Reverend carried on with introductions as if it were most expected. John Wesley: how unheard-of. Since his arrival in China when he was placed in charge of the mission, not a soul had spoken to her husband so familiarly, not even she.
Hunched and sallow, the innkeeper nonetheless seemed the picture of contentedness as he motioned for them all to sit at a rough table outside his door. His scrawny wife appeared after a few moments and bowed, but when she saw that the Reverend had brought his pregnant wife, she lost all manners and actually clapped the Reverend on the back.
Mai Lin spit her betel-quid juice into the dust and Ahcho shook his head, but Grace frowned at them both, and they kept their comments to themselves. A pleasant smile remained across Grace's lips, although she could not understand a word the couple said in their local dialect. She was determined to be gracious under these difficult circumstances, but when the innkeeper's wife pointed at her belly and made obscenelooking gestures, Grace hopped to her feet.
"She is only expressing her excitement for us about the unborn child," the Reverend explained.
The innkeeper's wife muttered something that made Mai Lin hobble to her feet, too.
"It's all right, Mai Lin," Grace said. "The poor wretch doesn't know any better."
Apparently, however, the innkeeper's wife knew enough Mandarin to grasp Grace's comment, for when she brought out the bowls of noodles, Grace's portion was noticeably smaller than the others. She did not mind, for she had little appetite anymore.
After supper, when there was still some light left from the setting sun, the innkeeper escorted the Reverend and Grace to the barn of a recent convert. On the short stroll through the hamlet, they saw no one, although at mealtime whole families would normally have been out in the streets. The Chinese had a habit of sitting on their haunches in their doorways and scooping mush from bowls into their mouths with chopsticks. But here, Grace saw no cooking fires and no greedy mouths. No younger adults at all, just elders and children leaning listlessly against doorways, peering out with blank eyes. The innkeeper confirmed that every able-bodied worker from this hamlet had gone to the city in search of employment.
"Obviously, the fields are withered," the Reverend whispered to her. "You notice no animals in sight. No dogs or even rats. Everything has been caught and eaten."
She took his arm to keep herself from shuddering. At seven months pregnant, her steps were necessarily slow, but he did not seem to mind. The cramping in her belly had subsided, yet she did not dare move too quickly.
At a crumbling barn near the edge of the village, a man far older and even more bedraggled-looking than the innkeeper stepped forward and embraced the Reverend. Grace let out a slight gasp at the sight of the skeletal little creature clutching at the fur hide around her husband. The top of the man's bald head did not come up to the Reverend's chest, and his brown arms in their torn shirt could not reach around him, but the Reverend did not appear repulsed. Instead, he placed a large hand across the man's back and held him close.
The man pulled out a set of keys, which he rattled in the lock. He pushed open the flimsy door, and they followed him in as the innkeeper lit a lantern and held it aloft. In the flickering golden light Grace noticed the resemblance between the two Chinese men and wanted to ask the Reverend if they were father and son.
She glanced about, and although the recesses of the open room were shadowed, she could tell there was no grain for the winter stored here, no curing meat hanging from the rafters, nothing to see them through the lean months ahead. The pinched grandfather who owned the empty barn kept nodding joyfully, though, as he struck up a second lamp. He rattled his absurd set of oversized keys, which seemed quite unnecessary to Grace since surely there was nothing inside the empty barn to steal.
But then they stepped into a smaller room, and the older gentleman made a pleased sound and pointed. Before them on a table sat the most surprising antique porcelain bowls, vases, and cups that Grace had ever seen.
The Reverend bowed his head respectfully before the table and listened as the older man jabbered on about the ceramic vessels, his voice rising and falling with remarkable vigor. Grace was able to catch only a few phrases.
She touched her husband's sleeve and whispered up to him, "Do they know that these are quite old? I believe I saw pieces like them at the Metropolitan Museum of Art in New York City in the days before my ship departed for the Orient. The simplicity of design, lack of decoration, and thinness of the porcelain all suggest they date all the way back to the Han period. Does he understand what he has here?"
The Reverend smiled down at her, his face softened by the glow of lamplight. "Indeed, he does."
Grace squeezed her husband's arm more forcefully and whispered again, "We should help him sell these pieces so he can make enough to see his family through the drought. He could move away from this terrible place. Does he want us to carry them to Peking for him and find buyers? I'm sure I could do that without too much trouble."
The Reverend held his finger to his lips to silence her and said, "No, my dear, this is their inheritance. They intend to hold on to it."
Grace looked at the foolish ancient man and his foolish old son and
spoke slowly to them in her best approximation of their dialect. "You will sell these and eat?" She rubbed her fingers together to suggest money and then brought them up to her lips to show eating. They had to understand.
The grandfather shook his head firmly, and the son looked quizzically at the Reverend.
The Reverend addressed the men. "Forgive my wife, she doesn't understand just yet." Then he spoke to Grace with exaggerated patience, as if to a child. "This treasure means everything to them. If they sold it, they would no longer want to live."
"Why, that's absurd," Grace sputtered in English. "They will starve next winter. Selling one or two of these vases could save their entire hamlet."
The Reverend stood
erect, the fur on his back broadening his presence as his voice changed unexpectedly. "Disrespect these people at your peril," he snarled. "I have seen the errors of our arrogant ways and the punishment we rightfully deserve. Have you learned nothing since our son was stolen from us? Must we repeat our hubris again and again?"
The Reverend's enormous shadow rose up the wall in the lamplight, and Grace could not help the shiver that overtook her spine as she stared into her husband's eyes, now as yellow as those of the animal on his back. She felt shaken and betrayed. Her mind raced as she tried to grasp the meaning of his outburst, but all she wanted to ask in that frightening moment was what had become of her husband?
The Reverend had lost his senses. Mildred Martin was right that he had gone native. She had heard the other ministers whispering that he had become a charlatan, a convert to his own code, a nut. Grace could not bring herself to believe such horrors, but out here in the borderlands, she finally understood that he had become one of these— these dreadful people.
