For a moment, all was still.
In the end the giant deer stepped away. Reality awoke again. 'All sentient beings,' said I‑Chen, who had been muttering his Buddhist sutras all along. Kheim normally had no time for such claptrap, but now, as the day continued, and they hiked over the hills on their hunt, seeing great numbers of peaceful beaver, quail, rabbits, foxes, seagulls
and crows, ordinary deer, a bear and two cubs, a slinky long‑tailed grey hunting creature, like a fox crossed with a squirrel ‑ on and on ‑ simply a whole country of animals, living together under a silent blue sky nothing disturbed, the land flourishing on its own, the people there just a small part of it ‑ Kheim began to feel odd. He realized that he had taken China for reality itself. Taiwan and the Mindanaos and the other islands he had seen were like scraps of land, leftovers; China had seemed to him the world. And China meant people. Built up, cultivated, parcelled off ha by ha, it was so completely a human world that Kheim had never considered that there might once have been a natural world different to it. But here was natural land, right before his eyes, full as could be with animals of every kind, and obviously very much bigger than Taiwan; bigger than China; bigger than the world he had known before.
'Where on Earth are we?' he said to I‑Chen
I‑Chen said, 'We have found the source of the peach‑blossom stream.'
Winter arrived, and yet it stayed warm during the days, cool at night. The Miwok gave them cloaks of sea otter pelts sewn together with leather thread, and nothing could have been more comfortable against the skin, they were as luxurious as the clothes of the jade Emperor. During storms it rained and was cloudy, but otherwise it was bright and sunny. This was all happening at the same latitude as Beijing, according to I‑Chen, and at a time of year when it would have been bitterly cold and windy there, so the climate was much remarked on by the sailors. Kheim could scarcely believe the locals when they said it was like this every winter.
On the winter solstice, a sunny warm day like all the rest, the Miwok invited Kheim and I‑Chen into their temple, a little round thing like a dwarves' pagoda, the floor sunken into the earth and the whole thing covered with sod, the weight of which was held up by some tree trunks forking up into a nest of branches. It was like being in a cave, and only the fire's light and the smoky sun shafting down through a smokehole in the roof illuminated the dim interior. The men were dressed in ceremonial feather headdresses and many shell necklaces, which gleamed in the firelight. To a constant drum rhythm they danced round the fire, taking turns as night followed day, going on until it seemed to the stupefied Kheim that they might never stop. He struggled to stay awake, feeling the importance of the event for these men who looked somehow
like the animals they fed on. This day marked the return of the sun, after all. But it was hard to stay awake. Eventually he struggled to his feet and joined the younger dancers, and they made room for him as he galumphed about, his sea legs bandying out to the sides. On and on he danced, until it felt right to collapse in a corner, and only emerge at the last part of dawn, the sky fully lit, the sun about to burst over the hills backing the bay. The happy loose‑limbed band of dancers and drummers was led by a group of the young unmarried women to their sweat lodge, and in his stupefied state Kheim saw how beautiful the women were, supremely strong, as robust as the men, their feet unbound and their eyes clear and without deference ‑ indeed they appeared to laugh heartily at the weary men as they escorted them into the steam bath, and helped them out of their headdresses and finery, making what sounded like ribald commentary to Kheim, though it was possible he was only making it up out of his own desire. But the burnt air, the sweat pouring out of him, the abrupt clumsy plunge into their little river, blasting him awake in the morning light; all only increased his sense of the women's loveliness, beyond anything he could remember exper‑ encing in China, where a sailor was always being taken by the precious blown flower girls in the restaurants. Wonder and lust and the river's chill battled his exhaustion, and then he slept on the beach in the sun.
He was back on the flagship when I‑Chen came to him, mouth tight. 'One of them died last night. They brought me to see. It was the pox.'
'What! Are you sure?'
I‑Chen nodded heavily, as grim as Kheim had ever seen him.
Kheim rocked back. 'We will have to stay on board the ships.'
'We should leave,' I‑Chen said. 'I think we brought it to them.'
'But how? No one had pox on this trip.'
'None of the people here have any pox scars at all. 1 suspect it is new to them. And some of us had it as children, as you can see. Li and Peng are heavily pocked, and Peng has been sleeping with one of the local women, and it was her child died of it. And the woman is sick too.'
'No.'
'Yes. Alas. You know what happens to wild people when a new sickness arrives. I've seen it in Aozhou. Most of them die. The ones
who don't will be balanced against it after that, but they may still be able to tip others of the unexposed off their balance, 1 don't know. In any case, it's bad.'
They could hear little Butterfly squealing up on the deck, playing some game with the sailors. Kheim gestured above. 'What about her?'
'We could take her with us, I suppose. If we return her to shore, she'll probably die with the rest.'
'But if she stays with us she may catch it and die too.'
'True. But 1 could try to nurse her through it.'
Kheim frowned. Finally he said, 'We're provisioned and watered. Tell the men. We'll sail south, and get in position for a spring crossing back to China.'
Before they left, Kheim took Butterfly and rowed up to the village's beach and stopped well offshore. Butterfly's father spotted them and came down quickly, stood knee deep in the slack tidal water and said something. His voice croaked, and Kheim saw the pox blisters on him. Kheim's hands rowed the boat out a stroke.
'What did he say?' he asked the girl.
'He said people are sick. People are dead.'
Kheim swallowed. 'Say to him, we brought a sickness with us.'
She looked at him, not comprehending.
'Tell him we brought a sickness with us. By accident. Can you say that to him? Say that.'
She shivered in the bottom of the boat.
Suddenly angry, Kheim said loudly to the Miwok headman, 'We brought a disease with us, by accident!'
Ta Ma stared at him.
'Butterfly, please tell him something. Say something.'
She raised her head up and shouted something. Ta Ma took two steps out, going waist‑deep in the water. Kheim rowed out a couple of strokes, cursing. He was angry and there was no one to be angry at.
'We have to leave!' he shouted. 'We're leaving! Tell him that,' he said to Butterfly furiously. 'Tell him!'
She called out to Ta Ma, sounding distraught.
Kheim stood up in the boat, rocking it. He pointed at his neck and face, then at Ta Ma. He mimicked distress, vomiting, death. He pointed
at the village and swept his hand as if erasing it from a slate. He pointed at Ta Ma and gestured that he should leave, that all of them should leave, should scatter. Not to other villages but into the hills. He pointed at himself, at the girl huddling in the boat. He mimed rowing out, sailing away. He pointed at the girl, indicating her happy, playing, growing up, his teeth clenched all the while.
Ta Ma appeared to understand not a single part of this charade. Looking befuddled, he said something.
'What did he say?'
'He said, what do we do?'
Kheim waved at the bills again, indicating dispersion. 'Go!' he said loudly. 'Tell him, go away! Scatter!'
She said something to her father, miserably.
Ta Ma said something.
'What did he say, Butterfly? Can you tell me?'
'He said, fare well.'
The men regarded each other. Butterfly looked back and forth between them, frightened.
'Scatter for two months!' Kheim said, rea
lizing it was useless but speaking anyway. 'Leave the sick ones and scatter. After that you can regather, and the disease won't strike again. Go away. We'll take Butterfly and keep her safe. We'll keep her on a ship without anyone who has ever had smallpox. We'll take care of her. Go!'
He gave up. 'Tell him what 1 said,' he asked Butterfly. But she only whimpered and snivelled on the bottom of the boat. Kheim rowed them back to the ship and they sailed away, out the great mouth of the bay on the ebb tide, away to the south.
Butterfly cried often for the first three days after they sailed, then ate ravenously, and after that began to talk exclusively in Chinese. Kheim felt a stab every time he looked at her, wondering if they had done the right thing to take her. She would probably have died if they had left her, I‑Chen reminded him. But Kheim wasn't sure even that was justification enough. And the speed of her adjustment to her new life only made him more uneasy. Was this what they were, then, to begin with? So tough as this, so forgetful? Able to slip into whatever life was offered? It made him feel strange to see such a thing.
One of his officers came to him. 'Peng isn't on board any of the ships. We think he must have swum ashore and stayed with them.'
Butterfly too fell ill, and I‑Chen sequestered her in the bow of the flagship, in an airy nest under the bowsprit and over the figurehead, which was a gold statue of Tianfei. He spent many hours tending the girl through the six stages of the disease, from the high fever and floating pulse of the Greater Yang, through the Lesser Yang and Yang Brightness, with chills and fever coming alternately; then into Greater Yin. He took her pulse every watch, checked all her vital signs, lanced some of the blisters, dosed her from his bags of medicines, mostly an admixture called Gift of the Smallpox God, which contained ground rhinoceros horn, snow worms from Tibet, crushed jade and pearl; but also, when it seemed she was stuck in the Lesser Yin, and in danger of dying, tiny doses of arsenic. The progress of the disease did not seem to Kheim to
be like the usual pox, but the sailors made the appropriate sacrifices to the smallpox god nevertheless, burning incense and paper money over a shrine that was copied on all eight of the ships.
Later, I‑Chen said that he thought being out on the open sea had proven the key to her recovery. Her body lolled in its bed on the groundswell, and her breathing and pulse fell into a rhythm with it, he noticed, four breaths and six beats per swell, in a fluttering pulse, over and over. This kind of confluence with the elements was extremely helpful. And the salt air filled her lungs with qi, and made her tongue less coated; he even fed her little spoonfuls of ocean water, as well as all she would take of fresh water, just recently removed from her home stream. And so she recovered and got well, only lightly scarred by pox on her back and neck.
They sailed south down the coast of the new island all this while, and every day they became more amazed that they were not reaching the southern end of it. One cape looked as if it would be the turning point, but past it they saw the land curved south again, behind some baked empty islands. Farther south they saw villages on the beaches, and they knew enough now to identify the bath temples. Kheim kept the fleet well offshore, but he did allow one canoe to approach, and he had Butterfly try speaking to them, but they didn't understand her, nor she them. Kheim made his dumb show signifying sickness and danger, and the locals paddled quickly away.
They began to sail against a current from the south, but it was mild, and the winds were constant from the west. The fishing here was excellent, the weather mild. Day followed day in a perfect circle of sameness. The land fell away cast again, then ran south, most of the way to the equator, past a big archipelago of low islands, with good anchorages and good water, and seabirds with blue feet.
They came at last to a steeply rising coastline, with great snowy volcanoes in the distance, like Fuji only twice as big, or more, punctuating the sky behind a steep coastal range, which was already tall. This final giganticism put paid to anyone's ability to think of this place as an island.
'Are you sure this isn't Africa?' Kheim said to I‑Chen.
I‑Chen was not sure. 'Maybe. Maybe the people we left up north are the only survivors of the Fulanchi, reduced to a primitive state. Maybe
this is the west coast of the world, and we sailed past the opening to their middle sea in the night, or in a fog. But 1 don't think so.'
'Then where are we?'
I‑Chen showed Kheim where he thought they were on the long strips of their map; east of the final markings, out where the map was entirely blank. But first he pointed to the far western strip. 'See, Fulan and Africa look like this on their west sides. The Muslim cartographers are very consistent about it. And Hsing Ho calculated that the world is about seventy‑five thousand Ii around. If he's right, we only sailed half as far as we should have, or less, across the Dahai to Africa and Fulan.'
'Maybe he's wrong then. Maybe the world occupies more of the globe than he thought. Or maybe the globe is smaller.'
'But his method was good. 1 made the same measurements on our trip to the Moluccas, and did the geometry, and found he was right.'
'But look!' Gesturing at the mountainous land before them. 'If it isn't Africa, what is it?'
'An island, 1 suppose. A big island, far out in the Dahai, where no one has ever sailed. Another world, like the real one. An eastern one like the western one.'
'An island no one has ever sailed to before? That no one ever knew about?' Kheim couldn't believe it.
'Well?' I‑Chen said, stubborn in the face of the idea. 'Who else before us could have got here, and got back to tell about it?'
Kheim took the point. 'And we're not back, either.'
'No. And no guarantee we will be able to do it. Could be that Hsu Fu got here and tried to return, and failed. Maybe we'll find his descendants on this very shore.'
'Maybe.'
Closing on the immense land, they saw a city on the coast. It was nothing very big compared to back home, but substantial compared to the tiny villages to the north. It was mud‑coloured for the most part, but several gigantic buildings in the city and behind it were roofed by gleaming expanses of beaten gold. These were no Miwok!
So they sailed inshore warily, feeling unnerved, their ships' cannons loaded and primed. They were startled to see the primitive boats pulled up on the beaches ‑fishing canoes like those some of them had seen
in the Moluccas, mostly two‑prowed and made of bundled reeds. There were no guns to be seen; no sails; no wharves or docks, except for one og pier that seemed to float, anchored out away from the beach. it was perplexing to see the terrestrial magnificence of the gold‑roofed buildings combined with such maritime poverty. IChen said, 'It must have been an inland kingdom to start with.'
'Lucky for us, the way those buildings look.'
'I suppose if the Han dynasty had never fallen, this is what the coast of China would look like.'
A strange idea. But even mentioning China was a comfort. After that they pointed at features of the town, saying 'That's like in Cham,' or 'They build like that in Lanka,' and so forth; and though it still looked bizarre, it was clear, even before they made out people on the beach gaping at them, that it would be people and not monkeys or birds populating the town.
Though they had no great hope that Butterfly would be understood here, they took her near the shore with them nevertheless, in the biggest landing boat. They kept the flintlocks and crossbows concealed under their seats while Kheim stood in the bow making the peaceful gestures that had won over the Miwok. Then he got Butterfly to greet them kindly in her language, which she did in a high, clear, penetrating voice. The crowd on the beach watched, and some with hats like feathered crowns spoke to them, but it was not Butterfly's language, nor one that any of them had ever heard.
The elaborate headdresses of part of the crowd seemed faintly military to Kheim, and so he had them row offshore a little bit, and keep a lookout for bows or spears or any other weapons. Something in the look of these people suggested th
e possibility of an ambush.
Nothing of the sort happened. In fact, the next day when they rowed in, a whole contingent of men, wearing checked tunics and feathered headdresses, prostrated themselves on the beach. Uneasily Kheim ordered a landing, on the lookout for trouble.
All went well. Communication by gesture, and quick basic language lessons, was fair, although the locals seemed to take Butterfly to be the visitors' leader, or rather talisman, or priestess, it was impossible to say; certainly they venerated her. Their mimed interchanges were mostly made by an older man in a headdress with a fringe hanging over his
forehead to his eyes, and a badge extending high above the feathers. These communications remained cordial, full of curiosity and good will. They were offered cakes made of some kind of dense, substantial flour; also huge tubers that could be cooked and eaten; and a weak sour beer, which was all they ever saw the locals drink. Also a stack of finely woven blankets, very warm and soft, made of a wool from sheep that looked like sheep bred with camels, but were clearly some entirely other creature, unknown to the real world.
The Years of Rice and Salt Page 21
