China

by Edward Rutherfurd

  “I don’t want you to go,” Mei-Ling said.

  “I was thinking that if I go with one of our boys, maybe we can come back in a year or two with a lot of money.”

  “You want to take one of our sons?”

  “Two men, twice the wages.” He considered. “I could take Ka-Fai. He’s the eldest. But I think he should stay here in my place. I’ll take our second boy. He’s sixteen and he’s strong. He wants to go. He thinks it’s a big adventure.”

  “You talked to him already?”

  “This afternoon.”

  “I didn’t know.”

  “We’re getting poorer every year. Last time my brother went to town he spent a lot of money. Even Mother can’t control him. I have to do something.”

  “You should be head of the family.”

  “I’m not.”

  “I wish he would die,” she cried wretchedly.

  “Don’t say such a thing.” He paused. “It’ll be all right. You and Mother can keep things going.”

  Mei-Ling started to cry. “I shall be so lonely.”

  “I, too.”

  “The moon’s nearly full,” she said dully.

  “Two more nights,” he said.

  She looked down at the moon’s reflection in the pond. The water was smooth as glass, but the moon’s outline was blurred by her tears.

  “We should go back in,” her husband said. “Everyone’s asleep.”

  She took his hand in the dark. “Come,” she said.

  * * *

  —

  Cecil Whiteparish was in quite a good mood the next day. The evening before he’d been able to have a long talk with the headman of the second hamlet, a kindly old man. He knew about the Taiping’s god, but he thought the rebels were more bent on destroying the Manchu than performing acts of kindness. Cecil had been able to explain many things about the true God to him, and the old man had seemed to be quite impressed. It was a small beginning, but it gave the missionary hope.

  The Reads had also picked up five volunteers, who accompanied them now as they returned to the first hamlet.

  Five more men awaited them there. One was a thickset fellow accompanied by his son. Read liked the look of him. “Exactly the sort of honest farmer we’re looking for,” he remarked.

  It was sad to see the fellow’s wife, though. The best-looking woman he’d ever encountered in that region. The Chinese didn’t like to show their emotion. When she parted from her husband, they hardly touched each other. But tears were running down her face. She stood in the lane at the end of the village, watching them until they were out of sight.

  * * *

  —

  Normally Shi-Rong would have ignored the reports, which were entirely confused. Strangers had been seen, heading for the hinterland. One report said they were barbarians. Another said Taiping. No doubt the messages had become altered in transmission. They came from a scattering of villages by the coast that were normally quiet. He hadn’t even been down there for a couple of years.

  Two considerations, however, had made him set off with a party of armed riders. One was that he had nothing else to do. The other was that if he wanted promotion from his humble magistracy, he needed some public displays of vigilance—something the governor might mention in his dispatches to the royal court—to bring himself to the emperor’s notice.

  And there might be something in the business. He doubted that the Taiping were involved. All the Taiping action these days was far to the north, around Nanjing. A local triad? Triads had attacked the unpopular Manchu authorities near Guangzhou several times in recent years. Triads didn’t usually push far into the hinterland, but he supposed it was possible. Or could it be something to do with the Hakka people? There was always a bit of jealousy and bad blood between the Hakka villages with their big round houses and the neighboring Han peasantry. Any kind of trouble could be brewing these days.

  One thing was certain. If there was trouble and he failed to investigate and was afterwards blamed, he could probably forget the rest of his career.

  For the truth was that his career hadn’t been going anywhere. He was still only a county magistrate—at the top of the humble seventh rank, but below even a deputy sub-prefect of a province. He’d been moved three times already, but never promoted. Nor did the provincial governor have any particular interest in him. Even his loyal servant Sun had recently retired to a life of Buddhist peace.

  The position had many duties. Not only did he preside over a law court, but he was responsible for every aspect of government in the county. He toured the towns and villages. He had to know the merchants and the village headmen. “Remember, you are the Parent of the People,” the governor had told him when they first met. In other words, if anything went wrong, it was his fault.

  He’d hoped to be a sub-prefect in the fifth rank by now. But he wasn’t even in contention. He felt alone. He wasn’t in disgrace, just forgotten.

  He knew it. And his wife knew it, too. He’d brought her and the children down to the region a year ago. But it had not been a success. She had disliked the humid climate, despised the Cantonese, whose language she refused to learn, insisted on being served noodles instead of rice in her home, and generally made it clear to him and to their children that she didn’t think they should be there. “I don’t know why you can’t get a better posting. I’m sure that when he was your age, my father was at least in the sixth rank,” she once remarked.

  A month ago he’d suggested it might be better if they returned to the family estate. “My aunt is getting very frail now. She really can’t cope. And it’s probably healthier for the children,” he said. His little son and daughter were upset to leave him; his wife made a good show of pretending to be. He promised he’d see them soon. And he fully intended to.

  For he was no happier with his situation than his wife was. And there was a way out. It wouldn’t please her if he gave up his career, but he was tempted to retire to the family estate nonetheless. He could devote himself to improving the place and to educating his son. He’d been thinking about it increasingly during the last month.

  Today, however, he was fully engaged in his work. And he was making rapid progress with his men. They’d ridden through half a dozen villages so far, and nobody had reported anything about the strangers, but there were still plenty of little settlements to visit.

  He remembered he’d seen a beautiful woman in one of these hamlets, a couple of years ago.

  * * *

  —

  Mei-Ling slept badly that night. The house seemed strangely empty without her husband and their younger son. Her brother-in-law was no help. Soon after the Americans had departed, he’d gone to his room, taken out his opium pipe, and retired into oblivion. Mother had looked grim and said little to anyone. Mei-Ling felt sorry for her, and towards the end of the afternoon she even went to her side and said softly: “Don’t blame yourself, Mother. None of this is your fault. It’s you that keeps us all together.”

  Mother had touched her arm, as though to say thank you, but she had shaken her head and gone outside, and Mei-Ling had thought it better not to follow her.

  As for the children, her elder son looked so like his father, it was almost laughable. He had a similar character, too—solid, hardworking, kindly. In the months ahead, she hoped that might be some comfort to her—almost as if his father were still there. As for Willow’s children, two of her girls were married now; her third was still in the house, a rather sad, skinny girl, a willow without its leaves, Mei-Ling used to think. And the young boy, her one success.

  Years ago there would have been several servants to think of as well. But only one remained, an old woman who had lived with the family all her life. She couldn’t do much, but her presence was like a talisman, a reminder of the house in those better days to which, who knew, it might one day return. She, too, was a kind
of comfort.

  But for herself, that night, Mei-Ling felt only a sense of desolation. She kept thinking about her dear husband and her son. Where were they now? In some other hamlet? Camping out on a hillside? She tried to send her husband messages of love—like little presents, carefully wrapped. In her imagination she saw them fly through the night sky under the watchful moon, magically floating until they alighted, to be opened by her husband’s hands. Did he sense her messages? Was he awake? Did he receive them in his dreams?

  Once or twice a terrible cold fear came to her. He was in danger. Something had happened to him. But with all her strength and will, she drove that evil spirit out of her mind, lest it should bring him bad luck.

  She must have slept fitfully. When she awoke, she thought it might be dawn, but she was not sure. Leaving her room, she stepped into the courtyard—and found that she could scarcely see across it. The walls were invisible. Even the small tree in the center was only an indistinct shape, enveloped in the mist. Somewhere above the mist, there was light, or she would not be able to see even the little she could. But whether it was the faint light of daybreak or the brightness of the moon, almost full now, she could not tell.

  She moved through the hushed glimmer to the gate, unbolted and opened it. She looked down towards the pond. But she couldn’t see even ten feet into the dense damp whiteness. A world without form. All life, all thought, dispersed in white nothingness.

  She was going to step out. The ground, at least, would be solid under her feet. But a strange sense of fear held her back, as though the white nothingness were like a death. If she went blindly down towards the pond and missed the bridge, she might even slip into the water and drown. She stood in the entrance, therefore, one hand on the gatepost to steady her.

  And then, somewhere close by, she thought she heard a horse’s cough.

  She frowned. It couldn’t be. It must be one of the ducks that lived on the bank of the pond.

  Then came a whisper, on her right, close by. Very close. “Mei-Ling.” Was it a spirit voice?

  She turned her head and stared, saw nothing for a second, until a shadow began to coalesce in the faint unearthly light of the mist and a shape emerged.

  “Nio! Little Brother.”

  He was standing right beside her now. She could see the scar on his face. His long hair was held in place by a yellow silk scarf tied around his head. He wore a loose tunic, a red sash, and soft leather boots. He was leading a fine horse with a flowing mane. And something else was obvious.

  He wasn’t her Little Brother anymore.

  How long was it since he’d been there? Half a dozen years. He’d come through the hamlet briefly, told her he was joining the Taiping. Then the Taiping had moved away. There had been much fighting. They ruled a big area centered on Nanjing, but she never heard a word from Little Brother, and she’d wondered if he might be dead.

  And now here he was, alive. He must be about thirty-five. To judge from his long hair, still a Taiping. An officer, too. It wasn’t only the clothes and the horse that made her think so. The way he held himself, every line of his face, proclaimed he was now a man of authority.

  “Are you alone?” she asked, and he nodded. “How long can you stay?”

  “Until this evening. I need to rest during the day. It’s safer to travel at night.”

  * * *

  —

  She had to tell Mother. To her relief, the older woman took the news calmly. But she was firm. “He mustn’t stay in the house. We’ve enough troubles without being accused of harboring a Taiping. Take him and his horse to the barn at the back.”

  The barn lay a short distance behind the house. It consisted of a storeroom above, under the roof, and an open bamboo area below with plenty of room for his horse as well as the plow and other farm implements kept there. It was enclosed, together with some low sheds, in a small yard of its own.

  “The boys will be out in the bamboo grove today,” Mother said. “Nobody will be going to the storeroom. You and I could always say he must have hidden there without our knowing.”

  Nio agreed with the plan at once, and long before the mist had lifted, he was fast asleep.

  * * *

  —

  It was midafternoon when Mei-Ling brought him food. And as he ate, they talked. She wanted to know so much about his life. He explained that he was an officer, with many men under his command. Had he a wife? she asked. “I have women.” He said this without feeling. “I’ll marry when the war is over.”

  “You still believe the Manchu must be overthrown?” she asked. “Just like the Little Brother I remember.”

  “That hasn’t changed.”

  “And you think the Taiping army can overcome them?”

  “We’ve been fighting for years now. Sometimes we advance towards Beijing. Other times they push us back. An awful lot of people have been killed. But we have more troops in Nanjing than the emperor’s armies opposing us. And our men are better trained.”

  “Is it worth it, all the killing?”

  “For a Heavenly Kingdom, yes.” He paused. He saw her look doubtful. “When you’ve killed so many, Big Sister,” he said quietly, “it has to be worth it. One couldn’t have done all that for nothing.”

  “And the Heavenly King himself? They all believe in him still?”

  Nio paused for a moment. “The Eastern King rebelled against him a while ago. That’s all over now,” he added with finality. He was silent for a few moments. “Where is your husband?” he suddenly asked.

  And now it was her turn to be silent. She didn’t want to tell him what had happened, how bad things were. Was her husband dead? he demanded. She shook her head. “I’ll ask your mother-in-law,” he suggested.

  So there was nothing for it but to tell him the truth. When she had finished, he did not look shocked, but only sad. “It’s the opium,” he said with a sigh. “It ruins every man who touches it.”

  “It’s the British barbarians—” she began, but he cut her off.

  “They sold it. They are to blame, without a doubt. And we bought it. I smuggled it myself.” He nodded grimly. “Black gold. Though the poppy flower is white—the color of death.”

  “Do the Taiping also use it?”

  “Some do. It’s everywhere.” He gazed at her. “You have used all the money I gave you, I’m sure.”

  “I am ashamed. But I had to.”

  “I know. I will give you more before I leave. But you must keep it hidden. Your husband’s brother will never stop smoking now. Never let him find your money. Otherwise there will be nothing left. Nothing at all.”

  “I cannot take from you again…”

  “I have money.”

  * * *

  —

  It was night. Mei-Ling and Mother had hidden the money in a safe place where the head of the family would never find it. And the full moon was in the sky to light him on his way when Nio led his horse out from the little barn. Mei-Ling walked beside him.

  She was wondering if she would ever see him again, but she did not say so. Before he mounted, she looked down at the still water of the pond, in which she could see the gleaming reflection of the moon. “Stand on the bridge and let’s look at the moon before you go,” she said.

  “Like when we were young and I was still Little Brother.”

  “Something like that.”

  She thinks she may never see me again, he thought, and she wants to remember me as I used to be. “Why not?” He smiled and nodded. There was nobody about. They wouldn’t be seen.

  * * *

  —

  It was dusk when Shi-Rong and his men reached the hamlet. Though their approach had been rapid, the headman was already out in the village street awaiting them. The villagers they passed had looked at them a bit apprehensively, but that was normal enough. As he gazed at the wizened old hea
dman, however, Shi-Rong thought that even in the falling light, he detected something shifty in the fellow’s manner.

  He wasted no time. “I am looking for Taiping. Have any come this way?”

  “Taiping?” Unless the headman was a consummate actor, he was genuinely astonished. “No Taiping came here.”

  “Any other rebels? Triads? Hakka? Troublemakers?”

  “No, Lord. None at all. We don’t see those people here. Not for many years.”

  He was telling the truth. Shi-Rong was certain of it. But the headman was also looking relieved. Did that mean there had been something else he’d been afraid this magistrate might ask?

  “Have you seen any strangers at all?”

  The old fellow frowned, as if trying to remember. That was absurd. He must be hiding something. The other villagers were standing around, listening.

  Shi-Rong cursed his own stupidity. He’d been too eager. He should have talked to the man alone, then cross-questioned the others one by one. As it was, they were all going to take their cue from the headman and give him the same story.

  “What sort of strangers, Lord?”

  “Missionaries!” Shi-Rong cried angrily, darting a sharp look around the other men to see if there was any reaction. But there was none.

  “No missionaries, Lord.”

  “British soldiers?” A shaking of heads. “Opium sellers?” They, after all, were everywhere.

  “None recently, Lord. Not in the last month.”

  There really wasn’t any other kind of stranger the authorities would have been interested in, so Shi-Rong gave up.

  “We’ll stop here the night. We shall need food, fodder for the horses…”

  “Everything, Lord.” The headman smiled. “Everything you desire.”

  * * *

  —

  It was while Shi-Rong was eating in the headman’s house that he thought to ask about the beautiful woman he had seen on his previous visit. Here at least he got some information. She lived in a big house with her extended family, on the outer edge of the hamlet by a pond. Did she have a husband? She did, and several children. Was the husband there?