The Shaman's Secret (4 page)

“I should have been told,” I said, walking to the door. I turned at it. “This is important. We need to hear what the man has to say.”

As my aunt had guessed, Cyril Baker was waiting in the spare parlor, sitting on a sofa that was covered with a dust cloth. He was reading a leather-bound book, which had the word “Good” in the title. I had to look twice at him, so remarkable was the transformation from the pale, superior man I had encountered before. At first glance one would think he was a Mexican, or an Italian, so dark was his hair. Until you noticed the deathly pallor of his skin.

“You've changed,” I blurted, holding out my hand to him. He took it; his own was cold, clammy. Out of the corner of my eye I could see that Aunt Hilda and Rachel had followed me.

“None of your friends think so.”

“I mean in appearance.”

“Appearances are the least of it. I'm a different man. My heart has opened.”

I took away my hand, finding it hard to bear his touch any longer. “You'll excuse my friends if they are a little mistrustful,” I said. “Are we expected to just take your word for this transformation? Forgive me, but kidnap and murder are the least of your crimes.”

He smiled, his pale eyes shining. “I was bad. I know it. Bad to my very heart. But—Kit, I saved you. I visited one of the doctors your friends took you to. He said you were as good as dead—past saving. I refused to believe him. I vowed never to give up. So I found Walter Silas. I gave him the money for his invention. He has been working on it for three months.”

I could have sworn Baker was sincere. Or else he was a very good actor. How could I
really
tell?

“Thank you.” I paused. “But why go to such trouble for me? The last few times we've met you tried to kill me.”

Mr. Baker rose to his feet and brushed a speck of dust off his perfectly pressed linen trousers. “I told you. I have changed. But I don't expect you to just take my word for it. I want to
show
you.”

Sometime later we stood in the central docks, near a huge corrugated-iron warehouse that was silhouetted against the sun. It was one of the many shops and stores that lined
the wharf. Despite the protests of my friends, we had come here, to San Francisco's main shipping port.

“Do not judge me too harshly for what you are about to see,” Baker said, as we stood outside the warehouse. “It is horrible …”

He pushed the door open and we entered. As soon as I stepped in, I wanted to gag as the awful smell knocked me back. It was a mix of urine, decaying meat, sweat—the misery of too many human beings packed into too small a space. It was dark inside and it took a few seconds for my eyes to see anything. Pulleys and lifting equipment hung from the ceiling. Looking down, I saw a swarm of human beings. It was like opening the front of a beehive and peering in. People sat, crawled, crouched, lay semi-naked on the floor. Most of them were Chinese. Some of them were chained about the ankles; others had their hands roped together. They were mostly men, looking at the strangers at the door with blank, resigned faces, although I did see some women and one baby.

One man glanced at me and then flinched away, as if I might hit him. He was squatting next to a boy scarcely more than ten years old. I guessed he was the child's father. The boy had cropped hair and bright eyes, the only eyes that looked at me with some spark. For an instant he reminded me of Yin, my friend whom I had left behind in China. She too, I remembered, had been captured and
transported across the seas like this, before we had rescued her.

I remembered that I had seen the hold where these poor Chinese coolies were transported over the seas to America. I had seen the spots of blood and the hooks and chains where they were tethered to the walls. I had suspected the Bakers were involved in this evil trade. Now I had the evidence.

“Don't be too harsh on me,” Cyril said, as we stood there silent and disgusted, taking in all the squalor.

“Harsh?” Rachel asked through clenched teeth. “How could we be too harsh? You're truly revolting. Below contempt.”

“I agree with you,” Cyril said.

“You do?”

“With all my heart. This trade in coolies is evil.”

“Slavery,” Rachel hissed.

“Not slavery, bonded labor,” Cyril replied. “I make no apologies for it. But you must understand the difference. It is
legal
. Bonded laborers like these have built America. Some of my coolies built the great western railways. These men will be free when they have repaid their debts to us.”

“Will that ever happen?” I asked.

“It is hard—their debts are high; the cost of their passage from China is huge.”

I shuddered, recalling that ghastly hold where men like these had been chained.

“I expect they're the kind of debts that can never be paid off,” Rachel said.

“You're so right. The way of business.” Baker tried to smile at Rachel, but she turned her face away and crouched down before a small boy chained to an older man.

“This is how it was,” Baker continued, “with me and my brother Cecil. We made a fortune from human flesh, among other things. But a new wind is blowing. Once my brother and I had ten warehouses like this—” He broke off, choking a little on the foul vapor in the shed, a handkerchief over his nose. “Please come outside. I do not feel so well in here … Please just give me a moment.”

Wiping off a spot of sweat above his lips, Baker walked across to the overseer, a Chinaman with a curling rawhide whip. I saw their conversation in a kind of dumb show. I could see their movements, but not hear their voices. He was saying something to the man. The overseer seemed to be arguing. Baker raised his voice and for a moment I thought the overseer was about to hit him. Then he stepped back and, hanging his head, the overseer nodded. Whatever it was about, Mr. Baker had won his point.

The air didn't feel so fresh when we were out on the dock with the tang of salt tainted with blood. We stood outside the warehouse, not knowing what to say. I looked
at Mr. Baker and couldn't understand how someone could be a human and inflict such misery on other humans.

“How could you? Children. Fathers. People. Just like you and me,” Rachel murmured finally.

“Yes.” Mr. Baker turned to her. “It has taken death to make me understand that.”

“What do you mean?”

“These men, these Chinamen or Indians or negroes. When I started in business, I never saw them as humans. They were units. Of profit. Of gold. And later of beautiful things that I could collect and own and treasure. You see, I thought I was special. Only
I
would appreciate these lovely things. You must understand—I bought the finest art from all over the world. Such beauty in the hands of Cyril Baker, the son of an ordinary servant—” He came to a sudden stop.

“You're heartless, Mr. Baker,” Rachel said. Her eyes were glowing with indignation, her face set. “You see these men as coolies, as not quite human. Well, I see
you
as a subhuman.”

She turned her back on him and marched into the path of an oncoming dray, which had to swerve, the driver cursing her. “Come, Isaac. We want nothing to do with this man.”

Isaac followed, the others in his footsteps. I found it hard to move. My mind was clouded. Some things were clearer, much clearer, but I couldn't
act
. The others marched off.

“Kit.” Waldo turned round to me. “Come on.”

I hesitated.

“Listen. I beg you, listen.” Cyril held his white-gloved hands up in the air. “Please, I've changed.”

“I am listening,” I said.

“What are you talking about, Kit?” Waldo strode back to me and tugged me by the arm. “Since when do you listen to anyone?”

“Please, Waldo. I want to hear Mr. Baker out.”

My friends and father had stopped and were turning toward us. I saw alarm on Father's face and remembered he hadn't wanted to come here. He had wanted me back home, resting in bed.

“Miss Salter, Professor Salter, please listen to me. I am a changed man. Do you see those carts over there?” He pointed to the line of drays moving toward us.

“Get on with it, man,” Aunt Hilda said impatiently.

“They are coming to take these Chinamen. These bonded laborers. I am setting them free. I have given them each fifty dollars.”

Waldo whistled sarcastically. “Fifty dollars.”

“Yes, you are right. I will make it a hundred. They will be going to a hostel right here in San Francisco, Chinatown.”

He seemed to be speaking at least some portion of the truth, for as he spoke the Chinese were herded out of the shed by the whip-toting overseer. A straggling line
of them moved toward the horses and carts. They'd had their chains removed. Mr. Baker called to the overseer and each man was given a leather pouch. I saw one open his, and saw the glint of silver inside. Most of them were silent. But the small boy was whooping and hanging on to his father's hand.

We watched silently as the coolies clambered aboard the carts. They seemed bewildered, mostly mute and resigned to this new twist in their fate. One boy, who'd had his leg irons removed, had a wild look in his eye. He was sixteen or seventeen, fit, less emaciated than most of the others. He clutched the pouch as if he would never be parted from it, and hung over the edge of the cart. I guessed he would take the first opportunity to run, and would melt into the city of San Francisco. Never to be seen again.

“Is this a trick, Mr. Baker?” Waldo asked. “How do you expect us to believe you will free these men? You could be just sending them to another prison.”

“Trust me.”

“You? Why should we? You're the most slippery creature I've ever met. Aside from your brother, that is.”

“True.” Cyril was sweating again; the handkerchief moved to dab at his lip. “Give me one chance. Just one chance. I've changed and I want to tell you my story.”

“I think we should give him a chance,” I murmured. “He has set these people free.”

My father spoke, his voice uncertain. “I agree with my daughter. After all, this man saved Kit's life.”

The drays and carts were driving off now in a flurry of dust. Dozens of those skinny arms hung over the sides of the carts. I turned away; there were so many unfair things in the world. I was so helpless. This man beside me, this Mr. Baker, had done so much to make the world a worse place. I don't know if I will be able to do much, when I am older and able to take my place in society, but I do hope that
I
don't increase the sum of human misery.

Abruptly Cyril Baker's mood changed. He wasn't listening any more. His eyes darted around.

“Where is Mr. Chen?” he asked.

“Who?”

“My overseer. The man with the whip.”

“He has gone,” Aunt Hilda said. “I saw him leave in that.” She pointed to a cart that was going in the opposite direction to the line of dray horses. It was moving off at a fine clip. As we watched, it curved round a bend in the road and disappeared.

“Disaster!” Cyril exploded. “Quick. We have no time to lose.”

“Why?” Aunt Hilda asked. “What's wrong?”

“No time. Hurry.” As we watched, Cyril called for his carriage and bundled in, urging us in after him. Waldo protested, but I got in and the others followed me. Baker
had something auburn-haired in his hands, which he put on his head. It was a wig, a silky, long-haired wig.

As the driver cracked his whip and the horses raced off, Cyril Baker transformed before our eyes. He peeled off the black mustache. Gone was the pale-skinned Spaniard. In his place was a ginger man, an Irishman perhaps.

Cyril leaned out of the carriage and shouted at his driver. “Faster!” he yelled. “Not the normal way. I want Ho Chen Alley.”

The carriage hurtled out of the port, up the hill and twisted sharply to the right. Shops and warehouses thundered by and then we were out of the shipping district and charging through the traffic. Drays and other coaches swept out of our way and soon we veered off the main roads, going deeper and deeper into the dark alleys behind the splendid facade of San Francisco.

A firecracker exploded above us as we pelted past a shop gilded with black and red dragons. We were in San Francisco's Chinatown. For an instant I was transported thousands of miles across the sea, back to China, by the names of the shops: Chow Yun Hed, Yeng Lee, Wang Ho. Scarlet lanterns painted with delicate oriental brushstrokes swung high in the air.

“I feel strange,” I whispered to Waldo as the carriage threw me against him. “Like we're back in Shanghai or—”

“Frisco's Chinatown. Biggest in the world. Pretty impressive, huh?” he replied, not meeting my eye.

Cyril had spent much of the ride looking through the
window at the back of the carriage, checking for pursuit. It was an unusual design to have a window so placed. Now he hung out of the door of the carriage and shouted something to the coachman, who lurched to a stop.