A Superior Man (23 page)

When the kettle lid clattered, Lam fished out metal mugs for all of us and dropped in tea leaves.

I gave silent thanks. Sam's rudeness could have gotten us dispatched without a sip of clean water.

Sophie was chanting and swaying to the rocks just as Sam had moved in rhythmic circles at the mouth of Big Tunnel. Then she squatted and lifted a boulder. She held it at her belly, bending back to counter its weight. She strode by and smiled, heading to a wall of rocks so like the beach in depth and colour that it couldn't be seen. I thought she too might vanish.

“I'll help her after drinking tea,” I said.

“We have food then.”

The tea came, very hot. I looked for the brat, who needed to drink and get warm.

“How does she move the large rocks?” I asked.

“People help her. They've gone fishing now, that's all.”

He dumped flour, lard, and water into a container, tossing in pinches of white powder. His fingers squeezed the dough. Today, bread was welcome. Lam's toes were scarred by corns and calluses, but all ten were present, even if some of the nails were black and thickened.

Lam sensed my eyes on him. “I was heading south last autumn when heavy rain started,” he said. “I got shelter here.”

“She was alone?”

“I make tea and you ask such questions?”

I shrugged.

He grinned. “I rested for several weeks. I helped her with the rocks. Then she went to her family so I went to New Westminster.”

“You dig for gold?”

“Twenty-two years.”

“When do you go home?” I wanted to howl at the loss of my cash roll.

“Maybe I'll stay.”

“Redbeards will kick you out.”

“I'll hide in the woods.”

He put the pan of dough over the fire. Lam was unlike the miners who passed through Victoria, bitter with failure. They mocked the townspeople as cockroaches who had never seen snow drifts as high as trees. Those miners had faced down bears and travelled alone through forests. They'd lost noses and fingers to frostbite. One miner warned me, “We couldn't bury the men who ‘got nailed' during winter because the ground was frozen, hard as rock. Good thing the bodies froze too and didn't stink. But stiffs of wood staying in our world until springtime meant that plenty of dirty things wandered about. When my hands felt icy, I didn't know if it was the weather or a bloodless visitor.”

Sam and the brat dragged back a sturdy bough that had lost its leaves long ago. The boy broke off smaller branches. Sam swung an axe at the trunk and shouted as if Lam was deaf.

“Her family says she's insane. They don't pay her any regard.”

“She makes tea,” Lam said. “She moves rocks. We sit when we're tired. She smokes to regain her strength. Same as me.”

“Does her family worry, Sophie being alone?” I mentioned yesterday's bandits.

“Hers is a warrior family,” said Sam. “She can use a gun. Her father and husband were killed when their people warred with the redbeards.”

“Who won the war?” I asked.

“Everyone.” Smoke curled out of Lam's mouth. “They talked peace.”

When I stood to go help Sophie, Sam stopped me. “Our clothes are half-dry. If we walk, they'll dry off.”

I asked Lam, “You ever tell her about the old man who moved mountains?”

“Many times. She liked that story.”

“Tell the boy,” I said. “He's the right age for such nonsense.”

“Long ago there lived an Old Man whose house faced two great mountains. They blocked the way to town, and his family members were always forced to climb over them or around them. One day the Old Man called his sons and grandsons together and they started digging at the mountains to remove them. A Wise One passed by and said, ‘Old Man, you will die soon. How can you bring down these two mountains?'

“The Old Man replied, ‘After my passing, my sons will keep digging. When they die, their sons will keep digging. With each generation, my family grows larger, but the mountains grow smaller!' The Wise One tried to think of a clever reply but, in the end, walked away with head down.”

Later, I followed Sophie back to the campfire. We had moved
only a dozen stones, going slowly. I had walked barefoot, letting my soles grip the rocks. Sometimes I walked ahead of Sophie; other times, I trailed her. Sometimes the ground was cold to my feet; other times I landed on Sophie's rocks, warm from her steps. She worked in silence, didn't even look at me.

Sam shook his trousers over the fire. Sophie drew lines of red paint on the brat's face. On seeing himself in a scrap of mirror, he shouted with delight and raced off to play.

When Lam gave me hot bread, I asked about the Yang fellow who lived in North Bend.

“That man went back home.”

“No Cache Creek for you,” exclaimed Sam.

When I cursed him, Lam glanced up so I explained about Peter.

“Don't do that,” he said in a stern voice. “Take him to China.”

“That's what I said,” said Sam. “This fool won't listen.”

“In China, he will learn to read and write,” Lam said. “Let him use his brain, instead of chasing fish in the river.”

“His mother is a good woman.” Why was Lam praising China if he was going to stay here? And who would pay for the boy's tuition?

“He's your bone and flesh,” said Lam. “He could grow up and look exactly like you.”

“In China, people won't let him forget anything, not even a tiny mole.”

Sophie nudged the miner for a translation and then she spoke right away.

“She says if you want to leave the boy here, then give him to her,” Lam said.

“The trueborn mother is best,” I said. “We know where to find Mary.”

“Doesn't matter if it's Mary or Sophie, he'll be raised the same,” Lam said, shaking his head, “learning only to hunt and fish.”

“He'll feed his family, same as us.”

“What, you hunt and fish?”

“I can grow two crops of rice in a year.”

Sophie pulled out money and offered it to me.

“She says to take the boy to his mother,” said Lam. “She says go ride the train. The boy is tired, can't you see?”

I wanted to grab the money but forced my hands behind my back.

“She says it's your pay for moving the rocks.”

I shook my head but he urged me to take it. Sam was muttering to Sophie, who nodded and spoke to Lam.

“She wants you to promise to ride the train,” he said. “Sam told her that China men pinch pennies wherever they can.”

“I was robbed! Every cent counts.”

“She helps the boy, not you.”

As we approached the buildings of North Bend, I said to Sam, “Can't we trek to the next train station?”

“Twelve miles away.”

“The day is still early.”

“You promised Sophie to take the boy on the train.” Then he grinned. “From here, the walk is a day and a half to Lytton. What about your ship ticket?”

The station master doffed his cap, smiling to see customers, and chatted in English with Sam. We climbed the wooden steps into the passenger car and stopped in our tracks.

This was no wagon; it was a fancy hotel rolling on iron wheels. A row of oil lamps, each wrapped in sparkling glass and capped by frosted shades, hung from the ceiling. Brass fixtures held windows open at all heights. Above them, polished panels of wood curved to the roof where more light entered through the small windows there. Cushioned with thick red cloth, the chair backs dipped both ways to let passengers face either the car's front or rear. I pressed the seat padding and found it soft and springy.

Peter ran down the aisle, shouting with glee. When he skipped back, Sam flung out his arms, growled like a wild animal, and chased him. The boy ducked under a seat. Sam pretended not to see and let him escape. Peter came running, leapt up, and grabbed my neck. I laughed and recalled crossing the river this morning. But such a good mood could not last long.

Sam vaulted over the seats, his long legs swinging. “We built this,” he crowed.

A bell clanged and the train started to move.

Peaks of distant mountains floated by, as did tall trees. This was my first time sitting inside, not crouched among a gang on the splintered planks of an open deck. From the window came the steady clank of pistons beating louder and faster than anything I had ever heard. As it gained speed, the train moved so smoothly that I was able to stand up and walk without losing my balance. I sat down, caught Sam's mocking gaze, and felt like a country bumpkin.

“Not your first time?” I asked.

Sam shook his head.

“You and your brother both worked on the railway?” I asked.

He looked away, even when I offered the bottle that Lam had filled with boiled water. I sat back and decided to enjoy myself. Few China men had ridden in such comfort over this road.

I had felt strangely content at hearing the brat's whoops of laughter. Happy times were hard to find. We sojourners never unravelled the mysteries of good luck, not even after debates around teahouse meals and late campfires. The rich were born into it while we poor fools had no choice but to chase it. At home, the family altar was central, even during the worst of times because only the ancestors had powers and direct reason to help us. Now my luck had fled and dropped me back to where I had started: a fifteen-year-old leaving home without a cent. Maybe the ancestors were angry that I had not paid them sufficient respect all these years. Twelve years had passed, an entire cycle of animal emblems.

We sojourners also discussed the proverb: “First, Luck; second, Destiny; third,
Feng Shui
; fourth, Virtues; fifth, Education.” Of these, we humans could affect only the last three. That was why Mother wanted her sons to be schooled. Some men believed that the port of Victoria possessed good
feng shui
: hills enclosed its deep harbour on three sides in the classic Dragon Protects Pearl. Other men said that
feng shui
didn't work in Canada; foreign spirits ruled the land and waters. But everyone agreed that people with poor luck and weak fates could improve their lives by piling up virtue. That was why I needed to take Peter to Mary. But our own proverbs reminded us that personal goodwill had long been limited by larger forces.

Even the good-hearted get kicked by thunder
.

Kind deeds see no rewards
.

Have some luck, then go on back
.

I reached down, fingered my stocking, and cursed those so-called lawmen: May all their sons be born without shit-holes. Police were corrupt no matter where we went. I should have leapt at the constable and his gun. I should have rolled out the door and ran, even without my boots. If they shot me dead in the back, my ghost would haunt them forever. The ache in my chest was a heavy iron beam. Nothing could be done to lighten or remove it.

Soon the train slowed. Trees and buildings that had vanished earlier in a blurred rush now gradually regained their shapes and lines. We passed a burial site with boxes and wooden figures, and then boarding halls, cottages for railway bigwigs, and false-front stores. Doors and fences raced by like hunted animals, leaving me behind. No matter how hard I might work here, there was no catching up, no regaining my loss.

The hillside forest hovered like an anxious parent behind the station. A bell clanged to clear the tracks. A crowd of men pushed and hollered on the platform that was oddly busy when compared to the peace and quiet of North Bend.

A redbeard boarding with a broom spotted me and rushed over. His shirt sleeves puffed over his elbows, held there by metallic arm bands. “Get off!” he shouted.

I showed him my ticket but he jabbered at Sam, who leapt up to cradle the sleeping boy.

“Go! The other way!” He pointed back at the station. “Those men, they didn't get jobs to clear the landslide. They're heading to Lytton to make trouble. If they see you, you're dead.”

Our tickets were wasted. The clerk resumed his sweeping, head down.

Sam stopped. “Want to save money?” He caught my eye. “Give me a few drops of water.”

He tapped red dust from a pouch into his palm. “We paint your face and make you one of us.”

His baby finger stirred the mix. The dye was Sophie's, he explained, a gift to the boy.

He dabbed a mountain on his cheeks and drew two streaks across his forehead. The lines were like those on the boy's face. I thought of blood flowing from a gash to the skull.

“Blow on it,” he said. “Dry it faster.”

I shoved my pigtail under Sam's big hat as he rubbed red onto my forehead and cheeks. His fingers were warm against my face.

“It's easy to wash off, isn't it?” I asked.

“Good thing your skin is dark,” he said. “At last, you and the boy look alike.”

He wiped his fingers in his armpits and laid the boy over my lap. He sat and gripped the water bottle, heavy enough to break a man's nose.