“But I changed yours,” I say, stupidly.
Isabella falls silent.
“I changed yours. It wasn’t that I couldn’t remember hers. What I showed her was what I painted. That’s why I took the slip from Marie, to be the one to paint your ceiling.”
“What did you change it to?” she whispers, her voice nearly inaudible.
“That something would stop her, and you would be safe.” I am weeping now, my breath catching in my swollen nostrils. “I know – I know you don’t love me, not as I love you, but that day, all the violence and Aimée… it wasn’t right that we were making things so terrible. And I thought I could at least free you from her, I could make you safe…”
At once she is in my arms.
4.
There is little here save for rocky beach and scrub to the front, grass and stunted pines behind. The cottage was once the residence of an elderly fisherman – a hermit, the villagers tell us, shaking their heads that anyone would want such a decrepit property, only that tiny garden and a barn they wouldn’t keep the devil in.
It suits us perfectly.
Every day we listen to the surf; every night we study the fields of stars. We have turned our bed to the east, to face the dawn.
We ordered marigold seeds, giggling together like naughty little girls.
Did the sigils really work? I still cannot say for certain. I had wanted Isabella safe, Mémé stopped, but I had imagined it would come in the form of police, not our own hands. I do know that there were no more mobs after that day, or so we read in the gazettes after; we were away on the first coach. The fishermen here tell us that a tiller takes a light hand; perhaps Mémé tried too hard, demanding instead of asking, pushing instead of letting events unfold in their time.
Isabella’s body next to mine, embracing me. Her hand sliding over me, inside me. And then rising up again to draw the sigil on my face, lazy strokes of her thumb, the easy slide of her fingertips.
Kissing me, everywhere but where she traced the sigil. Drawing my legs between hers, pressing us together. Her thigh between, her heat against my skin. My mouth dropping to her neck, her breasts, and we are rocking and sliding and then she suddenly cries out, staring into my face, her own suffused with love and I love and oh the light–
We do not demand; we ask. We do not plot; we suggest. No hunger, no suffering, no murderous rage. Just the slightest touch on the tiller, turning the world towards something a little kinder, a little sweeter, a little more like love.
Art by GMB Chomichuk
Diyu
by Robert William Iveniuk
* * *
1883
Hell’s Gate, Fraser Canyon
British Columbia, Canada
My ears rang as dynamite shattered stone. Rocks flew from the blast zone. My eyes followed the wire that vanished into the dust-cloud billowing out of the hole. Releasing the detonator’s plunger, I stood. I lifted my goggles, praising Buddha under bated breath.
Six fellows neared the opening with picks and shovels. I heard the banter of Mandarin as they entered. “Keep your eyes up,” one warned his brothers. “Who knows how stable it is here.” I seized the wire and dragged it over. Wrapping the cord around my arm and lifting the detonator, I watched them dig through the rubble.
Then I remembered I had to go.
Sprinting ahead, I chased down a supply wagon, jumped into the back and held on tight. Cold winds bit the Fraser Canyon. Morning sunlight crept over the horizon. Orange blades stabbed through the sky, illuminating the trees and cliffs. Light danced along the river beyond. We neared the edge. I watched the torrent rage, shivered, and missed home.
Before too long, we reached the bottom. Pines guarded the old railway town, dotting the rolling hills around it. Workers toiled by the roads. Wagons and horsemen passed. Two railcars sat on tracks we had already laid out. Men cleaned the railcars’ sides; others lazily smoked near them. I leapt out and headed to my supervisor’s cabin. Lamplight flickered behind the windows. I stepped through the front door.
Five whites sat around a hardwood desk, consulting piles of documents and a large map. One ran fingers through his thinning hair and sneered my way. A portly man sat on the right, cane on his lap as he glossed over a page. The project overseer, Mister Bunting, raised a hand and silenced a bearded man on his left. His niece Olivia, slender with tied-back brown hair, hungrily read a leather-bound book beside him. Boredom crossed her face. No doubt her visit to the countryside was not as she had expected.
“There he is,” Mister Bunting declared, standing and straightening his lapels in a bid to look official. Fading blonde hair gripped his scalp. His belly pressed against his shirt. A smile nothing short of venomous covered his face. “How’s it coming?”
“Fine, yes.” Colleagues who had been in Canada longer than I, and some genial whites, had taught me key phrases and words. Sadly, my comprehension was better than my speaking ability, which was better than my laughable reading level. “We make another two metre. Cleaning up is now.”
“What’s his name, again?” The sneering man aimed his chin at me. “Wushu or something, right?”
Mister Bunting turned his hand over. “Introduce yourself, lad.”
Showing respect, I lowered my head. “Wu Xiao-Li.”
“Gesundheit,” someone joked. Leering grins wide, the men laughed, nudging each other. Olivia hardly moved, but sighed heavily, annoyed. I kept my peace and let them finish.
A wave of Mister Bunting’s arm and his cohorts fell quiet. He bent down and produced a set of rolled-up papers. “Now, listen.” Mister Bunting put the papers in front of me, speaking as though addressing a child. “I want you. To take-ee this. To Benny. Benny, all right?”
“Yes, Mister Bunting.” He meant my foreman.
His smile again. “Good boy, Charlie.”
I took the papers. “Xiao-Li.”
“Yes.” Bunting nodded condescendingly. “Yes. Charlie. That’s your name.”
I hid my frustration. “I take to Benny.”
“Make him roll over next,” the portly man guffawed. Another round of raucous laughter. I left, anger nipping at my heels.
* * *
I found Benny in the centre of town, dragging a man out of a latrine. Three of his thugs had pulled the poor soul from his business and brought him into the street, trousers still around his knees. I tried not to stare at his shame as the men held him down. One hooligan gripped a long broomstick eagerly. A crowd gathered; Chinese and whites alike stopped to watch the half-nude man forced onto his knees. I put myself behind Fat Leung, a fellow whose girth kept me well-hidden.
Benny glared down at his captive joylessly. A wide-brimmed sunhat sat on his head, his pristine suit pants and vest woven from high-quality cotton. In his hand was a gold-plated pocket watch. His thumb tapped its side impatiently. I was told that Benny once went by Bai Wei, but changed his name when he started moving up in the ranks. Reminding him of his old name often resulted in beatings. Then again, Benny’s name was synonymous with pain.
“Wing,” he addressed the half-nude man in Mandarin, “would you like to explain where you were this morning?”
Now I recognized my colleague. Wing’s stringy hair covered his gaunt, unshaven face. Too scared to speak, he stumbled around his words incoherently. Benny lost his patience. “Well! It seems you were out looking for your tongue. Open his mouth! Let’s see if it’s still there!”
“Please, sir!” Wing cried. Struggling, he freed himself from the men’s grips and shuffled forward on his knees, hands clasped. “I had an upset stomach when I woke up! It’s the food, sir! Last night’s meat was rancid!”
Benny faced the crowd. Shocked looks circulated. “Your colleagues seem healthy.”
“Then it was something else!” Rubbing his hands, Wing kowtowed before the foreman, head to the ground. “I just couldn’t work with my bowels rebelling against me! Please, sir, I’m sorry! I’m sorry!”
“You think you can squat on t
he job when we have a whole mountain to tear down?” Benny snapped his fingers at his flunkies. “Beat some sense into him.”
As Wing wailed in protest, Benny’s heavies fell on him. The man with the broomstick dealt terrible blows against his bare legs and backside. Cackling, his companions’ fists pounded against my friend’s torso and face. Turning, Benny barked at the onlookers in English: “Back to work!”
Everyone scattered. Some left at a leisurely pace. Others skipped away like scolded children. Fat Leung waddled off, wiping sweat off his ham-like face. I remained, watching the thugs beat Wing into a stupor. I felt my chest tightening. The foreman saw me.
“Wu Xiao-Li.” He approached, pocketing his watch. “Now there’s a worker. We’ll have the tunnel finished by the end of the week at the rate you’re going.”
I tried not to look at Wing. The men broke away from him and came to Benny’s side. Wing whimpered and rolled onto his back, straining to pull his pants up. Welts formed on his bottom.
I produced the papers. “These are from Mister Bunting.”
Benny snatched them and read them over. He was an educated man, having taught himself English and reached a level far above us all. This advantage netted him the comfortable foreman position he enjoyed far too much.
“New blasting orders,” he mused aloud, folding the papers and pocketing them. “We’re to widen the tunnel, bring it a little closer to the river’s edge.” Benny put his hands together and cocked a stare at me. “Perhaps so future travellers can enjoy the view. Do you enjoy the view, Wu?”
I nodded. “I just wish this place had a better name. ‘Hell’s Gate,’ I heard people calling it.”
“They can call it whatever they like,” Benny spat. Behind him, Wing was trying to stand. His legs wobbled under his weight. “It’s a popular fishing site. Perhaps you can catch us dinner.”
“I’m not a fisherman.”
“I bet you never worked a detonator before, either.”
Flashes of my past danced before me. Rain hitting old stone steps. The smell of incense. The ringing of prayer bells.
Hair like silk.
I coughed. “Very true, sir.”
“Meet me at the pass in an hour. Get Wing to a doctor first,” Benny turned to Wing, who had finally maintained a semblance of balance. “Maybe we should dynamite a latrine for him.” Benny and his thugs laughed and sauntered off.
I went to Wing, supporting him on my shoulder. He whimpered all the way to the doctor’s office.
* * *
Soon enough, I was back at the work site. Some of my fellows were on break, resting in whatever shade was available. Others, out of fear of their superior and his goons, worked harder than before, speedily shovelling rocks out of the chasm.
The ridge, tufts of grass growing along its top, towered over us and the river. A great shadow stretched across the valley. Sun-bleached rock led up the side. Overhead, four birds sailed and dove over the hill.
I stood with my foreman, who took time to regard the scene. Benny sniffed. “Reminds you of the Dalian coast, doesn’t it?”
I shrugged. “I’ve never been. Have you?”
“My father was born there. He brought me to the coast every summer. Even after he died, my mother and I kept visiting it, just to smell the sea air. As if doing so somehow kept him alive.”
“He must have meant a lot to you.”
Bitter silence. Scowling, Benny waved vaguely at the mountain’s base. “Place some sticks there. And be quick about it. Bunting’s taking more photographs today.” He turned on a heel and left.
I groaned. Mister Bunting hired a man to take photographs every other week: of the men at work, of the site’s progress, and more importantly, of himself. It was during those times that Mister Bunting would stop everything and get a photograph taken of him shovelling dirt, driving a spike, reading at a desk, or standing beside the river. Word around the camp was that he sent them to his family out east for some private collection they loved showing off. His good niece, in fact, was to accompany the latest set’s delivery and ensure its arrival at their door.
His narcissism was not my concern, however. I had work to do.
I returned to the supply wagon we had ridden up in, gesturing to some explosives an older fellow drank next to. He regarded me briefly then reached in and tossed my supplies to the ground before returning to his flask. I took them and left. To keep my spirits up, I hummed a song from my old life.
* * *
I was checking the wires on the dynamite sticks when Bunting arrived. The process was delicate and needed my full concentration. Imagine my surprise when I heard him cry out: “Move it, boys! Charlie, are you done?!”
I snapped out of my trance and finished quickly. I turned and bowed. Bunting neared, rubbing his hands and grinning smugly. With him came the photographer and Benny’s thugs. Frustrated young Olivia was in tow, gripping the front of her skirt.
Past them, I saw a frail-looking figure bringing up the rear. It was Wing, face twisted in agony as he carried a fat camera and tripod on his back.
The sight of it was too shameful. I jogged to Wing and made a motion at him. “Here, I help,” I muttered in English.
“Good show!” Bunting beamed, snapping his fingers at the photo-grapher. “Take the shot just as the dynamite goes. We’ll do another of us at the crater.”
“Oh, Uncle Neil, must we?” Olivia pleaded, gazing out at the rows of trees beyond, “I so was hoping to take a carriage ride through the woods.”
“They’re no place for a lady,” he scolded her. “It’s best you stay where it’s safe.”
“Uncle Neil–”
“None of that, now. Come, let me look you over. This must be perfect.”
As they bickered, I set up the tripod with Wing. “What are you doing?” I asked in Mandarin, spreading the device’s legs.
My friend shuddered. “Benny’s fiends came by the doctor’s office. Dragged me out and made me carry this.”
“How do you feel?”
“How do you think?”
I met his eyes and saw misery. Sighing, I barely had the chance to answer when I heard Bunting call my ‘name.’ “Charlie, move it! The photographer’s gotta do his job!”
I apologized and stepped back; Benny’s widest goon pushed Wing aside. The photographer positioned himself. Lifting the tarp from the tripod, he stepped in front, raising the switch. Before him, Mister Bunting stretched his fingers and set them on the plunger. Olivia folded her arms and waited. He hesitated. Sweat rolled down his cheeks. His niece huffed. Breathing deep, he pressed down.
An earth-shattering eruption. Stone flew and clouds rose from the blast-site. Light flashed across the valley as the photographer’s shot snapped.
Low rumbles sounded.
Rose.
Fissures spread across the ground and up the cliff. Cracks opened wide, swallowing the land. I fell backwards. Around me, men dropped what they were carrying and ran for safety. Their equipment vanished behind them. An unlucky few tumbled into the earth’s gaping maw. I watched in horror as the cracks spread toward us. Bunting and his cronies fled the scene, hoping to outrun the coming disaster.
Wing tripped and fell flat against the ground.
I froze then. Stared at his prone body. Watched him turn over and cry out as the ground swallowed itself. A swelling in my chest made its way down to my legs.
I ran. Someone was calling out. I shut them out. Suddenly, I saw Olivia by my side, skirt hiked as she rushed alongside me. Just as the ground gave out beneath Wing, we shot forward, seizing an arm each. Our bodies lurched and hit the earth. Muscle and bone stretched. Pain ran through me. Wing cried out. Olivia jerked, tugging at his sleeve.
Beneath us, more earth gave way.
We dropped, skidding down the side. Tumbling into darkness.
* * *
You should leave. They’re going to notice you’re gone.
A voice from long ago brought me back to life, words echoing in my mind
as my eyes opened. I pulled myself up from stone. Fire burned up my side. Arms and body aching, I propped myself against a wall and gripped my head. Eyes adjusted to the black. Faint light spilled from above. Darkness covered everything below me. I pulled my hand off my temple. Blood stained the palm.
Shadows shifted near me. I ran to them, seized shoulders amidst the rubble and pulled my friend into the light. I leaned him against the chasm wall. Crimson ran down his face. Beside us, Olivia coughed and staggered to her feet.
Wing’s eyes fluttered open and he moaned at me. “Did we die?” I shook my head. My friend groaned in disappointment.
We looked up together. Steep rock towered over us. Midday sun bled into the pit. Shapes moved overhead. Shadows danced along the wall. Someone called down to us in Mandarin.
I called back: “We’re here!”
“Is that Xiao-Li?” a man cried. “Hang on! We’re sending men down soon! Just stay still and don’t go near that thing!”
I did not understand. “What thing?!”
“Don’t you see?!” A faint gesture waved at a sight unseen. “Look!” Cautiously, Wing, Olivia, and I followed his arm. Olivia gasped, clutching my arm.
For a moment, I thought we were gazing upon a train carriage. However, it was far too large to be anything of the sort. Its grey body was almost as tall as the wall behind us. Sunlight reflected off its metal skin. Three great cylinders fitted into its side. A pointed head stabbed into darkened earth. Its massive, rectangular backside loomed behind it.
A gash sat between two of the side-drums.
Wing’s breathing grew heavy. I felt Olivia trembling. “What is that?” she wheezed. “Are you seeing that, Mister Charlie?”
Long Hidden: Speculative Fiction from the Margins of History Page 15
