A Superior Man (22 page)

Tobacco Beard spoke English. A lumpy jacket was stretched tight around his middle.

Sam opened his hands in a friendly way to Grey Feather, but shook his head at the same time.

Tobacco Beard picked at his teeth while Grey Feather spat out short terse phrases. None of Sam's answers appeased him. They must have been arguing over blackmail money, to let us pass.

The two men glared at each other. Grey Feather growled and tipped his gun skyward.

Bang!

I ducked and stumbled. The crowd laughed at me.

Sam untied his pack and set it on the ground. Tobacco Beard pointed his rifle at him while Grey Feather rummaged through it with quick hands. He pulled out each bundle, hefting it, guessing at the contents by feel. With a yelp of triumph, he found the bottle of whisky that we used at the graveyards.

“Take off your pack,” Sam said to me. “Slowly.”

His hands were above his head as Grey Feather patted his pockets and took his knife. “They are arresting us.”

“These are lawmen?” They wore no uniforms. “What for?”

“Selling liquor to Native people.”

Sam trudged ahead. Tobacco Beard and Grey Feather pointed their guns at the boy and me. When I didn't move, Grey Feather swung the rifle butt at my head.

“No sell liquor!” I shouted in Chinook. “I go China!”

The words had no effect. Pushed along, I looked through the crowd, hoping to spot a Chinese face. In Victoria, China men landed in jail along with redbeards on the same charge. The police harassed Native drinkers and threatened to arrest them until they pointed out Chinese sellers. What China men hated the most was wasting time in jail, waiting for the judge to reach town and declare his court in session. Sometimes that took as long as two or three months.

The police cabin in Boston Bar was divided into two rooms by logs as thick as those of the outside walls. On the window sill sat the long parched skull of a cow, its empty eye holes big and almost round. At least the bones weren't human.

Grey Feather stood in a corner and held his rifle over both of us. My hands were clammy. Our packs were rolled onto the floor.

Tobacco Beard thrust out a grimy palm. Sam handed over his money, telling me to follow. I gave up my coins. Tobacco Beard slammed them on the table and rifled our pockets. No more money was found, so he pointed at our boots. Tobacco Beard gave them a hearty shake and then ripped out the makeshift paper soles. Only sandy grit fell onto the floor. He pointed at our stockings.

Sam obliged but not me.

Tobacco Beard nudged me and then reached for his gun.

I didn't move. He pushed me onto a chair and yanked my stocking.

My roll of bills vanished into his pocket.

“No!” I cried in English. “Please!”

He waved the money at his helper, who flashed a toothy grin.

If Sam hadn't been there, I would have dropped to my knees and begged. Better to let Tobacco Beard kill me than to have him steal my $400.

The boots were returned. I could barely pull them on. As we shuffled into the jail cell, Grey Feather pulled the boy away before the door slammed.

“Bring boy here!” Sam pounded the wood, but it absorbed all sound. “Don't let them take your son!”

I slumped against a wall and dropped to the floor. A man dies, then his house falls down. The cell reeked of shit and urine, soil and vomit. I wanted to tie a rope and hang myself from the window, swallow gravel scraped from the ground and choke to death, or plunge my head into a bucket of urine and drown.

I couldn't go home without a prize to show for all these years. Now, the village was sure to snicker about the black fate of my family. They paid no heed to how much money I had sent home over the years. They knew nothing about rail hands dying on the railway or trying to get into America. I could have been arrested as a smuggler and sent to rot in jail. The neighbours wanted only to touch the costly gifts I brought back, hoping for something new that they hadn't seen before. If they couldn't hold or smell it, it didn't
exist. One sojourner brought home a silver fork from a dining set. It got used to dig out weeds.

I should have spent longer nights in Rainbow's fragrant bed and spurted buckets of sticky bliss. Why hadn't I given Goddess a day, no—two or three days, to massage her heaven into me? Then I might have been content to die here. I should have devoured fine foods: abalone, mushrooms, roasted duck with crisp skin, the best grades of rice, and the finest aged wines. I would have swept any leftovers onto the floor for the scavenging dogs. Why hadn't I taken bigger risks at the game tables? Good fortune might have let me return home long ago.
A thousand days at home are fair; a morning away, hell to bear
.

“Are you crying?” Sam asked.

“No.”

“Not leaking horse piss?”

“Shut your mouth!”

“Don't China men think that weeping is bad luck?”

Sojourners who had returned to China as sad failures babbled such feeble lies that friends and family were obliged to sigh and pine along with them.

“You earned piles of money but gamblers cheated you naked on the ship? There's no watching your front and your back at the same time, is there?”

“A thief crept into your room and stole everything? Ah, people have Buddha's mouth but the heart of a snake.”

“Thugs in Hong Kong pushed you into a dark alley? Not even daylight frightens the crooks there.”

The women of such losers insisted with fearless aplomb that
they valued their men's lives more than money and put on a cheeky show of thanking the gods and ancestors for their safe return. They armed themselves with taut proverbs to refute the smiling but spiteful neighbours come to taunt them:

“
Sugar cane isn't sweet at both ends
.”

“
Gold won't buy a breath of life
.”

“
Man gets seven poverties and eight riches
.”

An aging mother hugged her long-away son with tears of joy, but her own funeral would be a small affair that sent her into the afterworld with no extra clothing or servants. A wife pulled her finally returned husband into bed after years of longing and virtue only to find that he was riddled with impossible diseases. Children found a sudden stranger in the house who cursed them for running and making too much noise.

Grandfather and Younger Brother had bought more land and improved the house with my money. They sang my praises to everyone. My grandparents had found an ideal prospect for my bride. I planned to buy Grandmother a new grindstone, one that turned with less backbreaking effort. I wanted to buy Grandfather a plough and a good steel axe. On market days, we would spend the entire day at the teahouse, calling for any dumpling or meat we wanted.

Even if I sprouted wings, there was no flying from this prison. I was trapped for months, waiting for the judge who carried his courtroom on his shoulders. He would fine me, but I had no money, which meant I would have to do hard labour to work off my time. There was no way to get word to the Council in Victoria. Even if I did, it might choose to ignore me, seeing that I was so far away and entirely beyond the community's sight.

I bit hard on my teeth and cursed silently. From our first meeting, Sam had only been trouble. He should have known about Tobacco Beard and stayed away from this town.

Damn that brothel keeper, that washman, that merchant in Yale. All of them, even that cookhouse man, had called Sam the best. Surely they knew that Sam carried bootleg. Surely they knew the eyes of the law would follow him. Shit covered his name. Those fellow China men were supposed to help me. I was the stranger here, after all.

“Don't blame me,” Sam declared. “The liquor that they found, that was for your graveyards.”

“You sell bootleg!”

“Those bottles were gone.”

“You look like a Native, so no one stops you going into Native villages. If a China man tries to do that, he gets kicked out right away.”

“They kicked me out too. Shouldn't you think about the boy?”

“What can I do? My money is gone.”

“Children get dumped onto Native women all the time. Fathers don't provide a cent, don't bother looking back. You're no better than them.”

I turned away. The only light came from a tiny window cut high into the wall. A horse and wagon clattered outside. I took what little running start the cell allowed and threw myself at the wall, trying to reach the window, clawing with my fingers and boot tips. I grabbed the window ledge but something sharp made me scream and fall to the ground. I swore and sucked at my fingers, spitting out any poison.

“Useless,” said Sam.

“If a China man was outside, I would yell to him. China men help each other. Not like your people, who help the redbeards.”

“We keep order. Redbeards use us to chase their killers and robbers. We know the hills and woods where they hide.”

“And you arrest China men.”

“Who quickly pay their way to freedom. Don't worry, when I get out, I'll tell China men to come fetch you.” He stood up. “Time for a piss.”

He didn't go to the pail. Instead, he faced the inside wall.

“We piss through the cracks,” he said, “so the other side will stink.”

I went to the wall and loosened my pants, peering through the dim light. We stood side by side and sighed. For a moment, the urine splashed away the fetid waste stuck to the wall.

That night, I awoke with a start and begged the gods to help me escape. Send a bolt of lightning to knock over a wall. Open a hole under me, a tunnel from long-ago breakouts. Unleash a gale to lift me and the ceiling into the sky.

At home, women were the ones who hurried to temples with prayers and offerings. That was the one activity that Mother and Grandmother had not fought over like alley cats. They returned home from temple visits praising each other and joking. Such peace ended far too soon. On second day, second month they tended the God of the Earth to ensure fair weather for farming. Third day, third month they cooked no meat, to cleanse the body. Ninth day, ninth month, they went to Green Dragon Temple on Pine Mountain to gain favour from the illness-fighting gods. Despite Mother's efforts,
few gods helped her. Indeed, she had ended her life a day after the birthday rites for the Goddess of Mercy, patron of mothers.

I needed to show the gods some sincere intent but had nothing on hand. All I could do was promise good deeds. I had started this trip with one, taking the boy to his mother, and it had ended in disaster. All I could do was make another promise.

Then a ghost tapped the back of my head.

Simple!

Ask Fist's questions at the Lytton temple and bring him his answers.

Such generosity should win me favour.

11
11

B
OATS
C
AN
C
ROSS THE
D
EEPEST
R
IVERS
(1885)
B
OATS
C
AN
C
ROSS THE
D
EEPEST
R
IVERS
(1885)

In my dream, Boss Long, Pock Face, and I were yanking at floorboards in the game hall, breaking them, and tossing them into the fire. Ours was an ancient building from the town's early days. Boss Long had just heard talk of how miners from the gold rush accidentally left precious gold dust in the cracks of saloon floors after walking through and putting their feet up for a night of drinking. Pock Face and I scowled; none of that gold would land in our pockets. For once, Boss Long worked beside us, tugging at nails and planks, his pigtail pinned atop his head. We made our way around the stove, which was too heavy and too hot to be moved. Finally the ashes cooled and Boss Long sifted through them.

He shouted, held up a thin yellow wafer, and flung it at me. I reached out but grabbed only empty air. He tossed a second chip that glinted from the lamplight. I missed again. Boss Long started scolding.

The squeal of rusty door hinges dragged me back to the jail where Sam and I were lying hunched at a well's bottom. Tobacco Beard kicked me. My legs were numb, even though the cold wasn't severe.

“Go!” Sam stumbled forward.

I groped for my boots. A hairy insect flitted through my hands.

In the office, Tobacco Beard jerked his thumb at the front door, but Sam shook his head. Looking for our packs, I grinned at the reek of our urine on the wall. We dirty dogs had marked our spots, leaving a stink behind. A black cat arched its back and padded over a wooden bench. The pot-belly stove was cold. With a roar of anger, Tobacco Beard grabbed Sam, hustled him out the door, and hurled him onto the road.

I ran to him. “We can leave?”

“China men stole our packs, if you believe him. All my goods are lost!”

“He stole them!”

“I told him that. He said, ‘We'd rather eat shit than rice.'”

“He stole our money.”

Grey Feather brought out Peter, whose grubby fingers rubbed at his eyes. His other hand gripped the hat from Sam's grandmother. The constable glanced at me and spat onto my leg. I ignored him, but Sam shouted and shoved him hard. Grey Feather regained his balance and cocked his gun in one quick move. Sam's fist sprang up, but Grey Feather brushed it aside and thrust his face forward to mutter into Sam's. They glared at each other, and then the constable chuckled as if pleased with himself, and ambled off.

I checked the boy for injuries. His gaze was unsteady and faraway.

“Ask your lawman,” I yelled to Sam. “What did he do?”

He spoke to the brat instead, who shook his head at each question. They trudged away.

“What about my money?” I shouted. We couldn't leave without a fight.

“Want to die?”

May as well, I thought. At home, my grandparents would retreat to dark corners to curse me aloud without being heard. To go abroad was a brave act that lifted everyone's hopes, even those of the ancestors. To return empty-handed was to topple all those lavish dreams. A return needed to be a celebration of promises fulfilled, not a keening circle for hapless futures.

A redbeard merchant cranked an awning over a dust-spattered window. The wooden frame of a new building was pungent from fresh-cut lumber. Two dogs wagged their tails outside a shack that smelled of baking bread, probably where yesterday's bandits had gotten their food.

By the roadside, I dropped to one knee and pretended to be tying my boot laces. I mumbled thanks to the gods for our quick release from jail. If I had known they were listening so intently last night, I would have pleaded for the return of my money instead.

Freedom was nothing without cash. Money made you a dragon; without it you were a worm.

I would offer to do a week of steady labour for Tobacco Beard; I'd scrub clean his jail or pound down his dirt floor if that obliged him to return my savings. I wanted to stay and devise a way to regain my cash before the scoundrels spent it all. But Sam had rushed ahead with the boy, eager to leave town, keen to forget all this shame. Dark clouds pulled the sky down; we trekked under a bed's low-hanging and smelly underside, where no man could walk upright.

Across the river, long-ago crews had cleared away earlier
landslides that had churned and slid over the railway. Ragged borders of broken trees and grey rubble marked the former reach of debris along the mountain. In the river stood a newborn island, a square beast with a rocky spine of horns. Blackened trees with withered branches spread spindly fingers from under the water.

“Down there is a crazy woman,” Sam said. “She digs out a fishing station from under the rocks.” He clapped my back. “Old friend, which way now?”

Friend? What bullshit was he talking? I pulled away.

“This road takes me north to Lytton,” he said. “Go south, and it takes you to Yale.”

“I go north.”

“You have no money.”

“Kinsmen in North Bend will help me.” The words flew out before I could think. To turn back now would drain more blood and muscle from me. The boy must go to Mary. It was absurd to head home with no money but with an extra mouth to feed instead. That redbeard cowhand on the sternwheeler had acted so quickly, so naturally to save Peter's life. Why in hell couldn't it be as simple for me?

On the other bank, the path of the iron road led to a redbeard settlement, small and tight with stores and houses. Native people crouched at the rocky shoreline, nets and spears at the ready. To me, the two banks seemed spread apart, letting the water broaden and slow down.

“You can't cross the river,” Sam said. “Want to die?”

“Look at those two.”

Two Native men were launching a battered old boat from the other side. I pulled the boy down a trail buttressed with planks and
rock slabs. Keels and hulls of rafts and barges lay half-submerged, skeletons spat up by powerful river gods. Years ago, oxen pulled railway supplies along the wagon road until the loads got floated across the water at a slow-flowing spot. The squeal of straining cables against pulleys had seemed unending.

By the time we reached the beach, the two men had crossed and were pushing ashore a small dugout. Sharp rocks scoured its bottom. The men grabbed spears and nets and ran toward a fishing post. I almost called out.

Rusty tin cans floated in the dugout, which was carved from a single log, painted red and white, its sides glittering from rows of inlaid animal teeth. Shiny patches of pitch had hardened in spots. I reached to test their strength but bailed water instead. The brat ran his fingers over the pretty patterns. Did he know any secrets to crossing this dark foaming river? Surely now was the season for a gentler current. In China, water levels fell during the annual diversion for summer crops.

“You won't get across.” Sam squatted on a nearby log. “Not in that wreck. You lack strength.”

“At game halls, I threw out men twice my size.”

“You don't know boats.” He pulled his hat over his eyes.

“Two young men just crossed over.”

“They know the river, you don't.”

I looked to the brat, hoping his boyish charm would win over Sam. My son paid me no attention.

I put him in the boat and rolled up my pants. He waved at Sam as I tugged at the boat, which was reluctant as a water buffalo. I removed the boy and looked for small round logs on which to slide
the boat along. The beach was too rocky to let them roll, but I needed Sam to see that I wasn't all stupid.

With a shout, Sam came running. He threw his weight low into the stern, and the boat moved a few inches. When I pushed too, the boat gained momentum and grated over the rocks. I prayed that no new holes were added. I splashed into the river, shrieked from the cold, and pulled at the bow. Sam lifted the boy in, shoved the boat again, and jumped aboard.

We shot downstream.

“Paddle the other side!” he shouted.

I glanced back. The boy bailed with a tin.

The boat tilted. I jammed my paddle into rocks.

“Stand up!” Sam yelled.

In the river's middle, the current gained strength. Water surged aboard. Every stroke felt useless. The opposite bank was far away.

“Dig deep!” he shouted.

The boat was turning; its bow faced downriver. The river swept us along like a twig. Rocks rushed at us. My oar lashed from side to side.

“Paddle out! Push the rocks!”

The bow dipped and water crashed into me. I flung water off my face in order to see.

The boat shot upward like an arrow.

I shut my eyes and braced for death.

“Don't stop!”

I shoved the paddle through the water.

We slammed into land, bow first, no graceful docking along one hull like yesterday's finish. As soon as we dragged the boat ashore,
I leapt up and roared. The headstones on the ancestral altar at home were jumping for joy. My lungs and chest felt huge. This was a mighty river, but I was a dogged mule, plodding on steadily. This time Earth had defeated Water. I could rely on the favour of Heaven. I could saunter across any railway trestle, no matter how tall, no matter how strong the wind. When I lifted Peter onto the beach, he clapped his hands and cheered.

Sam bent over to catch his breath. “Almost died,” he gasped.

“We have big lives.”

“My customers don't die,” he said. “Never thought to see you risk your life for the boy.”

He got it wrong. It was for my sake that the boy's life had been put at risk.

We flipped over the boat, draining it to thank the owners, whoever they were.

We hurried toward a campfire, shivering from the cold and wet. A middle-aged woman emerged from a tent, hustled the boy to the fire, and fetched towels and clothes. Red paint was dabbed onto her face. She wore only Native clothes: leggings and a smock of animal skin hung stiffly off her as her moccasins glided over the rocks.

She scolded Sam and returned to the tent.

He wrung out his pants over the hot rocks, causing steam to rise. “Sophie is the crazy lady who moves rocks.”

“Who's crazy?” A third Chinese voice startled me. An old man brought more clothes, some new with creases, others well-washed and patched.

Sam pointed to the hill of rubble. “You think she can move all this?”

“No harm trying, is there?” The man's leathery face, burnished from sun and wind, was much darker than Grandfather's.

“You crawl into her bed?” Sam flapped his shirt over the fire.

“If I wanted women, would I stay in Gold Mountain?”

“She tells people that when she awakes in the mornings, the boulders have shrunk in size,” Sam said. “Or they have split apart, so she can move the smaller pieces. I said to her, ‘If the spirits help you, then why don't they change the rocks into birds that fly off on their own?'”

“She has never fallen on these rocks.” The China man lit a roll of tobacco from the fire. “Isn't that strange?”

“She has fallen many times!” said Sam. “But she knows not to complain aloud.”

The woman smiled and beckoned Sam to follow her. He scowled and refused. She went alone to the great spill of rock, hands outstretched, an opera actor in a wide ornate robe making an entrance. When small birds darted from a crevice, chirping in alarm, visions of seared seasoned meat arose in my mind. We hadn't eaten since yesterday.

Sam draped our wet clothes by the fire and went to fetch firewood. My son followed.

“You think Sophie is crazy?” asked the China man, whose surname was Lam.

“Back home,” I said, “there are worse.”

A madwoman had lived alone in our hills, while we children both chased and feared her. She tried desperately to hide, but her unclean smells betrayed her every time. Her family wrapped food in leaves and cloth and left it high in the crooks of trees. She shouted
curses at everyone before fleeing on bony, grimy legs. Summer days she left her upper body bare, but her long tangled hair hid everything. People said that nests of mice and birds flourished on her head. Her distressed children, left unmarried by their mother's madness, prayed for wolves to attack her. Indeed, those with serpent hearts had whispered that the food was meant to lure the animal killers closer to their target.