Earthquake (8 page)

They followed it for a long way, then turned to pass through a tailor's shop, going in the back door and out the front again. They came into another narrow street. Dai Yue's uncle led them across it, slowing to step carefully over a scatter of boards. On the far side, he stopped and bent double, breathing hard.

Dai Yue watched her uncle, worried. The smoke was so thick it was hard to breathe. Her eyes stung
and her throat felt raw. She followed her uncle. Brendan kept up, but every few moments he looked back toward the curtain of smoke.

“This way,” Dai Yue's uncle commanded.

Dai Yue gestured and Brendan followed them into a meat shop. The smell was overpowering and Dai Yue felt her stomach clench. She realized how hungry she was and longed for a cup of tea to soothe her throat. Her uncle stopped near the front of the shop. There was a bucket sitting on the counter, with a dipper hanging from the rim. Dai Yue stopped, her dry throat aching at the sight of water. “Uncle, I am thirsty,” she said.

He leaned on a table, waiting while she drank, then frowned when Brendan took the dipper from her. Dai Yue shot her uncle a glance, knowing that he would refuse to drink after the Fon Kwei boy. When her uncle spat on the floor, Brendan glanced at him, but did not speak.

“Your uncle should drink, too,” Brendan said as they started out of the shop. “Mr. Malloy from the newspaper said that all the pipes in the city are broken. That's why they can't fight the fires. Who knows when we will get water again.”

Dai Yue translated as much as she had understood. Her uncle only spat once more and hobbled ahead of them, going through the front door and down a few wide steps to the street.

“This is Clay Street,” Brendan said quietly as they descended. “This was on my route, too.” He looked surprised to be in familiar territory.

Dai Yue understood only part of what he had said. In the distance, she heard a rapid sequence of muffled blasts. It sounded like a New Year's celebration. Her uncle stopped, a contorted scowl on his face.

“Dai Yue, tell him to go now,” her uncle ordered, coughing, jabbing a finger in Brendan's direction. “He will only bring us bad luck.”

Dai Yue turned so that Brendan would not see the emotion in her face. “He saved your life, Uncle. You owe him a favor.”

“It is already repaid. He could not have found his own way out of the City of the Sons of Tang.”

“But he could have left me to die on the Fon Kwei street this morning.” Dai Yue was trembling. She had never spoken to her uncle this way.

“I told you,” he said in a low voice. “This favor has already been repaid.”

Dai Yue was angrier than she had ever been in her life. How could he ignore what Brendan had done? “He saved your life, as well, Uncle. I could not have done it alone. All the others just walked past.”

Dai Yue fully expected her uncle to explode into a rage, but he did not. Instead he closed his eyes and took three long breaths. When he did speak, his voice was tight and clipped.

“Tell him I owe him one favor.”

Dai Yue translated, accurately this time. Brendan nodded politely, listening to her while watching her uncle's face.

“Explain to him that he doesn't owe me anything,” Brendan said.

“He accepts,” she said to her uncle, feeling a small twinge at the lie. Lies attracted demons.

“Only one,” her uncle responded.

She turned to Brendan. “He owes one favor.”

“Then tell him I want you to be able to marry whoever you want,” Brendan said. He smiled impishly at her.

Dai Yue caught her breath. She gathered her courage and repeated the favor in Chinese.

Her uncle went rigid, his face draining of color again.
He coughed hard for a long time. Dai Yue saw a tiny trickle of blood at the corner of his mouth. “You asked for this favor,” her uncle accused once he had caught his breath.

Dai Yue looked into his eyes. “I would not steal what he earned.”

Her uncle coughed again. The smoke was getting thicker. “I grant this favor. Now tell him to go.”

Dai Yue turned to Brendan. “He says yes. He says you go now.”

The startled look on Brendan's face tugged at Dai Yue's heart. She turned to her uncle. “Let him come with us.”

Dai Yue's uncle spat once more. “I have no strength to waste in argument.” He walked off with an odd swaying motion, then stopped at the corner to cough again. Dai Yue stayed just behind him. When he was not looking, she reached to touch Brendan's hand.

◊ ◊ ◊

Brendan could barely breathe. The smoke clawed at his throat and lungs as he followed Dai Yue and her uncle along Clay Street. There were so many people fleeing the fires that it was almost impossible to tell which way they should go. There was smoke in every
direction. All they could do was keep going, keep heading into areas that weren't yet ablaze.

Dai Yue's uncle was coughing almost constantly now and he leaned heavily on her as they walked. Once or twice Brendan steadied him from the opposite side, but met a glare of such hatred that he backed away again.

Brendan glanced at Dai Yue. She was watching her uncle, her worry showing plainly in her eyes. There was blood on his lips and on his cheeks. He coughed again, doubling over, but somehow he kept going.

The sky was filling with smoke. The street seemed dusky, as though it were evening, not midafternoon. There was a strange reddish color in the light, too. It tinted the buildings, people's faces, the ground itself—making everything seem flushed, unnatural.

Brendan felt his stomach grinding. He was so hungry. He had been a fool not to eat at the shops they had walked through. He swallowed painfully. Even more than he wanted food, he wanted water. Brendan felt Dai Yue tug at the back of his shirt. He turned to face her.

“Uncle rest now.”

Brendan shook his head. “Not here. The fires are too close.”

Dai Yue spoke to her uncle. He spat, cursing, and glared at Brendan. Then he said something to Dai Yue, coughing violently between rushes of angry-sounding words.

“He can go no more,” Dai Yue said. “We stop now.”

Brendan looked up at the sky. The smoke had closed over the city now, shutting out the sun, cutting San Francisco off from the rest of the world. Brendan felt the tug on his shirt again.

“We stop there.” Dai Yue pointed at the corner.

“Only for a few minutes,” Brendan told her. He could see that her uncle was badly hurt, but if they didn't get out of the way of the fires, they would all be dead.

Dai Yue helped her uncle up onto the sidewalk. He staggered forward, then turned to sit down, his back propped against the wall of a residential hotel. The tenants were scrambling in and out of the front door, loading trunks and boxes. One man had a delicately painted delivery wagon advertising a piano-moving company. The horse was exhausted, its head low, almost touching the cobblestones.

Brendan watched Dai Yue sink down beside her uncle. She looked different somehow—younger, more timid. A sudden commotion made Brendan turn and look across the intersection at the far side of Powell Street. A group of men in dark uniforms were standing outside a saloon. A sign advertising Yosemite Lager Beer was painted across the second story. A beautiful mountain scene with pine trees seemed to promise customers more than a glass of beer.

The soldiers were trying to get past the bald man who stood solidly in the doorway. He was shaking his head and the voices became shouts. Brendan could make out part of what they were saying.

“. . . order of the mayor,” one soldier yelled, holding his rifle high, threateningly. “We have the authority to . . .”

An automobile full of furniture rumbled past and Brendan couldn't hear for a moment. The driver turned down Clay Street—Powell Street was almost entirely blocked with rubble about half a block up. Once the automobile had passed, Brendan strained to hear the argument again.

“That's trespassing!” the bald man was shouting over and over.

The soldier who seemed to be in charge had stepped back. He had shifted the position of his rifle so the barrel pointed vaguely in the direction of the saloon owner, but still angled toward the ground. Brendan stared. It would take the soldier only a split second to raise his rifle to fire.

“. . . the right to steal a man's property,” the bald man was saying. “Who gave you the authority to do that?”

The soldier frowned, replying in a voice too low for Brendan to hear. Then he stepped back one more pace, his eyes never leaving the saloon keeper's. He slowly raised the rifle, holding it steady, aiming at the man's chest. Two of the other soldiers lifted their rifles as well. The others just stood, waiting.

After a few seconds, the bald man moved away from the door. He stood on the curb as the soldiers filed into his establishment. A moment later the first of them reappeared, carrying a heavy whiskey keg. Grunting, he set it on the curb, then went back in.

Brendan glanced back at Dai Yue. She was sitting beside her uncle. He was still leaning back against the building, his eyes closed, his mouth slightly open now. Dai Yue was watching people pass on Clay.

“Let's get this finished up quick!” the officer shouted. Brendan looked back across the street. Working hard, the soldiers had piled ten whiskey kegs and eleven or twelve larger beer barrels in front of the saloon. As Brendan watched, one of them pulled an ax from his pack.

The bald man turned aside as the soldier stood over one of the barrels, raised the ax high over his head, and then swung, his arms rigid with effort. The ax crashed into the oaken barrel. The staves shattered beneath the blow and amber-colored whiskey flowed into the gutter.

Men stopped to gawk as the next barrel, then the next was shattered. The blows of the ax rang out over the murmur of voices. A man called out, demanding to know what the soldiers were doing.

“General Funston has ordered all liquors destroyed or seized, sir,” the officer called back. “This city faces enough disorder without public drunkenness making matters worse.”

The man nodded grudgingly. Brendan could hear the soldier's words being repeated, the explanation passing through the crowd.

As Brendan turned to face Dai Yue again, the street
heaved beneath his feet. The jolt was sharp enough to make him stumble backward. As he caught his balance, he saw a cart horse rearing, its driver dragging at the reins to control it. After a few seconds, the city quieted, then came back to life again once the ground had settled into stillness.

Brendan stood motionless, his heart pounding.

A high-pitched wailing assaulted his ears. At first he had no idea where it was coming from. Then he turned. Dai Yue was screaming.

Dai Yue stumbled upright and whirled away from her uncle. She did not realize the high-pitched wailing was coming from her own lips until she saw two men looking at her, then the concern on Brendan's face. But even once she realized what she was doing, it took her a moment to stop, to cover her mouth with her hands. Her whole body was shaking.

She stared down at her uncle. She had gripped his hand when the ground started moving. He had not responded. He had not opened his eyes when she called his name. He had not wakened when she had gripped his shoulder. He lay now at a twisted angle, his fall stopped only because he had slumped against the brick wall.

“Dai Yue?” Brendan ran toward her. People in the street were moving again, their eyes fastened on the cobblestones in front of them. “Dai Yue, what's wrong?” Brendan yelled as he came to stand beside her.

She tried to speak but could not. Her thoughts were tangled and would not separate themselves into sense. Her uncle was dead. She knew it. She knew it without touching him, without listening for a whisper of breath, without feeling the warmth drain from his skin.

Brendan was staring into her face, his eyes searching for a wound, a bruise. He held her shoulders. She raised one shaking hand and pointed.

Brendan seemed to understand immediately. He ran to kneel beside her uncle. Dai Yue could not bear to watch as Brendan tried to rouse him. She turned and faced the street. The people passed without so much as a glance. She saw a young mother leading two children, a third in her arms. They were all crying.

“Dai Yue?” Brendan's voice was curt.

She forced herself to face him. Her uncle had fallen sideways. Brendan was struggling to lay him down on his back.

“Help me, Dai Yue.”

She shook her head. If her uncle was dead, she had no one, no place to go.

“Help me,” Brendan said again. His face was pale, his eyes wide.

Dai Yue shook her head again, but forced herself to take a step toward him. She felt cold suddenly, and her legs seemed to be made of rubber. She saw sparkles floating in the air in front of her and stumbled sideways. Brendan's hands were suddenly on her shoulders. He steadied her until the wheeling sparks receded, then disappeared.

“Dai Yue?”

“Yes?”

“He's dead.”

She squeezed her eyes shut. “I know.” As soon as she spoke the words, a blackness seemed to swell inside her, pushing its way into her heart.
Alone.
She was alone.

“We have to go.”

Dai Yue looked up wildly. What did he mean? She could not leave her uncle to lie in the street like a dog. She would have to arrange a funeral, a banquet for his business associates, for his wealthy clients. She could not dishonor him by—

“We can't stay here. The fires are coming fast.”

Dai Yue wrenched free, staggering backward.

Brendan was looking toward Chinatown. “Dai Yue, there's nothing else we can do.”

Dai Yue heard his words and she understood them. But the meaning lay on the surface of her thoughts. It did not touch the seething clouds of confusion that raged inside her. She could not leave her uncle here. How could she do that? Her ancestors were whispering to her from their graves. They were angry that she would allow this boy to touch her uncle, to talk about leaving his body in a filthy Fon Kwei street.