A Superior Man (20 page)

“We tell people to wear it at their necks or burn it and swallow the ashes.”

Next day, we made our first sales at our own camp, using gentle tones to tout our sacred product. Later, as we reckoned how much paper, ink, and string to buy, and how fast we needed to make the charms, Poy stormed up. “Can't you do better than fleece your workmates?”

“I help them.”

“When the mountain kills, nothing stops it.”

“I survived two tunnel collapses.”

“How did you get Shorty on your side?”

“Gave him a charm for free.”

“That rock brain said you were protected in prison by the gods, so I asked him why you landed there in the first place, if you were so lucky. Then he said you survived the illness, so I asked him why you even got sick. After all, half of the crew escaped illness. You could have worked all that time.”

“The gods were testing me.”

Poy laughed as he turned away. “If you want to be the chosen one, then go ahead. The bosses will send you into the dark tunnel whenever they can't see clearly.”

Clearing the tunnel took three days. The stench of the rotting bodies was terrible. Poy asked me to help move the corpse. “If Onion blames you for his death, then you can redeem yourself.”

I shook my head. “What if he wants to trade places with me again?”

Onion had given Bookman money for his own service. He was the only crewman who could afford it. There was lucky cash to hand out after the funeral, but not a single crewman attended it. There were hefty amounts to pay Poy, Old South, Little Touch, and Number Two to bury his body in the woods. I got paid to carve his name and home village onto a plank. Only then did I learn his real name: Choy Ming Chung, “Bright Pine.” I cut deeply into the wood, drawing each stroke with rounded bumps and smooth tapers so that each word looked like brushwork.

On the day of the funeral, Number Two ran to me as we workers returned to camp.

“Poy got burnt. Badly.”

He lay on the ground in the sick tent, shuddering and moaning as his eyes flicked open and shut. When his face, throat, and body had been set aflame, his clothing melted into him. The skin was seared red and dry in spots; elsewhere it was charred leather. Pus oozed from dish-sized blisters.

“Get a blanket,” I said. “He's cold.”

“I covered him,” Head Cook said, “but he started sweating.

“I'll run to town for ointment,” I said.

Number Two shook his head, stating that burns were hard to heal. He told us what happened: “We started the cleansing fire. We started to burn Onion's things, his clothes, blanket, wooden pillow, and chopsticks. Poy brought out Onion's stock of liquor and squatted by the fire. He was happy to destroy it. He opened two bottles, clear as water. He sniffed them and made a face. ‘We should have poured this over his grave,' he called out. ‘No animals would dare dig at his flesh.' He chuckled and tilted the bottles into the fire. Whoosh! Flames raced up the streams like mice running on ropes and ba-lam! The bottles exploded into Poy. He fell back, screaming. His skin and clothes and hair were burning. He slapped at his face and eyes. I ran for a blanket to muffle the flames, but when I lifted it, his skin came away too.”

Next morning, a hard scab covered much of Poy's burns. More skin seemed to have been lost. He couldn't talk or swallow.

“That's good, isn't it?” I asked. “The scab means he is healing, no?”

I ran to town for ointment but the clerk frowned and said, “Don't waste your money.
Heal an injury but not a destiny
.”

Shorty brought his lamp and cooked opium. Head Cook stood nearby with a bowl of soup and a spoon. Poy couldn't lie sideways to
smoke but Shorty pushed the pipe into his mouth, covered it with a blanket, and pinched his nose, forcing him to inhale. When he stood to leave the tent, I said to him, “On Centipede Mountain, Poy never killed anyone.”

“And you?” he asked.

“Doesn't matter what I say. You won't believe me.”

I sat with Poy all night, trying to recall how Mother had sought favours from the Goddess of Mercy or the Heavenly Empress. She promised to fast for days, chant sutras, or release caged birds. I had nothing to trade for Poy's life, no riches, no prayers, not even promises. I got very sick once, and Mother took a bowl of hot rice, covered with a cloth, and rubbed it over my face and head. I remembered her calling out, “If this sickness came in through the mouth, then let it leave through the mouth and enter this bowl of rice. If it came through the nose, then let it leave through the nose and enter this bowl of rice.” Then she took the bowl outside and emptied the rice into the gutter. She never did this for my brother and sister.

Poy died three days later.

I left the tent and heard Long Life say to someone, “Look how he died. Wasn't a work accident. He touched all those dirty things, so of course he died during a funeral. That's why men avoid those events.”

I clapped him on the back and rubbed my palm there. “I just finished carving Poy's grave-stick,” I said. “His name is imbedded in your back. His ghost will follow you forever.”

I paid California, Old South, and Number Two to help me move the body. I bought water from the river for Poy's hands and feet. My tears wet the cloth for cleaning his face. Then we carried him to a site with a view of the river.

Upon our return, Poy's clothes were tossed into the cleansing fire. I watched the flames die down, and then left the camp late that night. I thought Company thugs would chase and seize me, but nothing happened. Maybe Poy's ghost was watching, maybe not.

Shorty had been right all along. I deserved to die. If I had had the courage to join Onion's Native caravan, then those two men would still be alive.

10
10

O
N THE
R
OAD
, G
ENTLEMEN
A
RE
R
ARE
(1885)
O
N THE
R
OAD
, G
ENTLEMEN
A
RE
R
ARE
(1885)

The darkness within the Big Tunnel began to lift as a nib of light grew bigger in the distance. Our footsteps sped up and sounded lighter. Near the entrance we heard banging sounds, the thud of iron on rock, the ringing of steel on tempered metal.

The damn railway was finished, wasn't it?

Canada was linked from ocean to ocean now, wasn't it?

Weren't all China men heading home to safety and peace?

Loud cursing and the thrum of saw blades grew louder and then clearer. The boy darted ahead to the curved road and we stopped.

The railway vanished under soil and rock jumbled higher than a house. Leafy treetops that were once aloft in the sky lay under loose earth. Boulders had split open, showing jagged eggshell edges. Threads of white roots wormed through dark soil and layers of yellow clay. Shiny crystals in the newly exposed rock caught the light and glittered.

Yes, redbeards might bleed from the land's unyielding edges, but you would never hear them cry surrender. They sauntered away, hands in their pants pockets, hats tipped back on their heads,
whistling cheery tunes. Why shouldn't they? China men were already on hand to do the dirty work and restore redbeard order. The King of Hell invited guests, and these fools rushed forward.

China men clambered over the wreckage, chopping at mops of hairy roots and sawing at tree trunks. They heaved rocks to the ground and drilled holes for blasting powder. Teams of horses dragged laden skids to the railway, to a flat-deck car piled with debris.

That Sam was right. If all China men left Gold Mountain and went home, then the redbeards would be forced to do all the dirty work. They would have to pay more for everything and stop strolling around like pigeons afraid to dirty their feet.

I asked Sam, “Turn back?” and pulled the boy toward the tunnel. No one could scramble over the treacherous debris while towing a lively child and carrying a heavy pack. At the start of this trek, Sam had said Lytton was four days away by foot. A delay now would render my ticket worthless.

He paced back and forth, his face dark. He must have had many customers ahead, awaiting his bottles. I suspected only small bunches of China men were left, mangy weeds like Fist and his uncles, and they couldn't afford to buy much liquor.

By the black remnants of a campfire was a kettle. Sam kicked it over the edge of the clearing.

“Stinking bastard!” someone shouted. “What's that for?”

“These jobs, they belong to Native people.” Sam stood with feet apart, hands at waist, elbows out.

The China men peered at him, stung into silence. Such insults were not often issued in our own language. They yelled muddled slurs.

“Lazy worms. You slink off at the first word of fishing.”

“After payday, no one can find you.”

“Last to join the work, first to leave.”

“We aren't slaves.” Sam raised his chin. “We have freedom. We have families.”

They told him to eat chicken shit and limp off with his rotted corpse.

“Did you know?” He turned to me. “These shit-hole fiends mock the China men who leave for home. These men say, ‘We don't know the word death.' But they keep feasting off our lands.”

“Go fetch the kettle,” I said. “If they beat you, I won't help you.”

“I look after myself.”

“If they hear about the liquor, they'll kill you for it.”

After a moment, he stalked off.

“Who was that turtle head?” One worker ran up. “Screw his mother!”

“We got work!” A man atop the debris waved his hat. “Our eyebrows got long while waiting, but the jobs finally came. There's work for weeks!”

“Can we reach the iron road ahead?” I asked.

The man beside him spoke. “Go to the river.”

“Are there boats?”

“Go look yourself,” said the man. “Don't you have eyes?”

“You're the blind one,” I said. “When redbeards see this, all you dogs will fight for drippings of shit.”

“It's the same work as before.”

“Jobs were plentiful back then. Not now.”

A sawyer atop the rubble knotted a rope at his waist and tossed
the other end to workmates. He thrust a sturdy triangle of wood, its smooth sides planed at a mill, into the notched break of a fallen tree. He leaned back and slammed his sledgehammer into the wedge. The tree split with a loud crack and one end rolled off, sending rocks and boulders sliding and teetering. For a moment, the sawyer clawed at empty air, but his friends yanked him to safety.

Had such ropes been common along the line? Was it only my crew that had failed to use them and suffered the bloody results?

The first worker brought over a dandy who was dressed for town in a grey suit and blue tie. Only the top button of his jacket was fastened, revealing a checkered waistcoat.

“Boss Soon, here's the cockhead,” said the worker.

I expected the Chinese headman to scream at me for interrupting the work.

“Need a job?” he asked.

I snorted. “The King of Hell marries off his daughter: nobody wants her!”

“Ah, you've worked. Where?”

“They never told us. Can we get to Lytton?” The boy grabbed my hand when the headman eyed him. “The boy's mother is there.”

“Good for you. Usually she never finds the father.”

“The trueborn mother is best.”

He nodded. “My brothers and sisters were raised by a stepmother.”

I looked him up and down. “You always dress this fancy?”

“Company sends a bigwig to inspect us.”

“You speak English?”

He nodded. “Can't you work a few days? I need strong men.
These ragged beggars can barely stand up.”

“Give Sam a job. Then he won't make trouble.”

“Tell that stir-shit-stick to go die.”

He wished me luck finding the boy's mother and sent a worker to fetch the kettle. As we headed down a narrow path to the shore, I asked where they had come from.

The town of Kee-fah-see was where Sam planned to make the third stop of our trip. These men would have been Sam's customers, but now the Company fed them. No wonder Sam saw fire and berated them.

The kettle lay at his feet, at the foot of the path.

“You're lucky they didn't stomp your bones,” I said to Sam.

“Boss Soon kneels to shine the redbeards' boots. He doesn't know shame.”

“You sound like a China man.”

“They should all go home.”

“When they're ready, they will.”

Two Native men in a dugout thrust paddles through the water, ferrying three passengers. Around us, a steep slope of small stones rose straight from the river. We squatted and leaned back to let our packs anchor us. Sam muttered about wrapping his goods in blankets against water damage. I kept a tight grip on Peter, who wanted to play in the water.

If he could find gold, then I'd let him jump in the water all day.

In China, cheery tradesmen sauntered through the countryside, tools and kits on their backs, come to mend pots or bowls, to repair bricks and mortar. Some of them flagged rides from boatmen, others trudged over the mounded dikes. Women and children flocked like
flies to the men's news and gossip. They voiced loud opinions while working. If there were no jobs, they sipped tea and ambled to the next village. They smiled freely, but Grandmother sighed for them, for how they lacked a wife, a home, and a waiting meal each night.

“Better to be alone.” Grandfather puffed on his tobacco. “Sleep in peace, work in peace.”

As a boy, I had thought that travel meant moving at your own pace, going wherever you wanted, and evading tiresome talk. I reckoned that explained Father's fondness for rolling up his bundle and leaving on another sojourn.

“Does the boat go to Lytton?” I asked Sam.

“Are you stupid? The current is too strong. The boat crosses the river but doesn't go north. We walk to Boston Bar on the wagon road and then come back to this side.”

“You prayed too late to the mountain,” I said. “When did that landslide happen?”

He shrugged.

I thought that the railway people in Yale should have known. Word would have gone down to the station through the telegraph.

“That boat will waste our time,” I complained.

“Not so,” he retorted, “we cross over, sooner or later.” He caught my frown and hooted. “You didn't know, did you? Another bridge further north takes the railway over the river to the east side, just like the wagon road crossed over at Alexandra Bridge.”

Heavy footsteps crunched beside us, and then two redbeards called and waved at the boat. One cradled a rifle while the other held a skittering dog on a leash. The animal flattened itself and looked up with keen eyes. The two men stuffed their stockings into their boots,
laced them together, and slung them over their shoulders. Rolling up their pants, they showed legs as white as paper.

Being so careful, they had to be husbands with tiger wives. Peter eyed the dog and moved closer.

When the dugout arrived, three China men waded ashore. One fellow called to another but aimed his words at me. “Don't we have enough workers?”

“That's so, we've got plenty of hands.”

“Stinking bastards.” I spoke loudly to Sam for them to hear. “Boss Soon just asked me to work for him. I refused him.”

The redbeards pushed forward and offered the boatmen more money, so they were taken aboard first, leaving us to wait.

But Sam and the two boatmen took time trading news and jokes, chuckling now and then. The redbeards fidgeted and cleared their throats. Finally they nudged the boatman to put aside his cigar and get going.

The other shore lacked a useful beach. We climbed to the wagon road, clutching at plants and rocks, hoping they were firmly anchored. Across the water, the jumbled wreckage of the landslide stretched for over a mile.
Heaven punishes, the earth destroys
. A god had thrust a giant pitchfork into the cliff and yanked with supernatural strength to gouge the mountain. Over the railway and river below, rubble had swirled out as though from a spinning dancer.

Didn't the railway bigwigs expect more landslides? High steep
mountains all along the canyon had been shaken, like clutches of fortune sticks jiggled by temple worshippers until one stick dropped from the holder. Did the Company call upon Jesus men in lofty churches to pray for protection over the iron road? Perhaps people all along the line went to church to send up massed songs seeking favour. Maybe there were eerie secrets to building an iron road that we China men never saw.