The Palace of Heavenly Pleasure (61 page)

Lao Yi, a farmer who had been one of the first in Bashu to befriend and be converted by Father Adolphus, was contemplating her with his honest features. ‘Elder Sister, is there anything that can be done to save us?'

‘Oh, Lao Yi, I don't think so,' said Elena, feeling her heart break a little.

‘I didn't think so,' he said. ‘I was never very clever, you know, and I couldn't learn the scriptures. Father Adolphus was often angry with me for getting the stories wrong, but you can tell me, can't you? There is a purpose to this? The Lord does have a purpose?'

‘Oh, yes, Lao Yi, the Lord always has a purpose,' said Elena, trying to hold back her tears. ‘Even if we cannot understand what it is.'

Lao Yi nodded. ‘I thought so,' he said. ‘Then everything's fine, isn't it? Elder Sister, I'm glad you're with us at the end. Look,' he paused shyly. ‘I know you're not a father, or even a lay pastor like John, but I thought, maybe, you can lead us in a few prayers, or hymns. Some of us are quite frightened, you see, and there's nothing like a hymn or a prayer, is there, to cheer you up?'

When the Boxers next came in they were surprised to see a woman in Buddhist robes standing at the altar, with the Christians kneeling in a half-circle around her. In a strong voice, she was reciting a prayer, the Magnificat, the others murmuring the words along with her. When the Boxers tapped Lao Yi on the shoulder, he stood up promptly, genuflected to the altar, and then, straightening his shoulders, walked resolutely in front of them to the door. This time there were no screams or wails. The prayer continued to the end. Before the door closed, Lao Yi heard the first lines of a hymn, and as he stepped into the sunlight he began to sing in his rough, tuneless voice:

‘Yesu ai wo, wo zhidao

Shengjing shuoguo wo hen hao…'

‘Jesus loves me this I know

'Cos the Bible tells me so.'

Five more times the Boxers came in, and then all the men were gone. The women continued to sing, although many had tears running down their faces.

They were singing when the doors banged open and Ren Ren, flanked by his lieutenants, with Headman Yang and several villagers holding bloody hoes and pitchforks, strode into the church. Heads turned in fear, but Elena, her eyes fixed on Ren Ren, forced herself to continue, louder, defiantly, with the words of the psalm, and although there was faltering, the murmuring accompaniment continued. It happened to be the twenty-third Psalm, which Dr Airton had translated and for which Sister Caterina, who was talented in that way, had composed a catchy tune. As she sang the words she felt strength and a purpose she had thought she'd lost: ‘Yea though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil: For thou art with me; thy rod and thy staff they comfort me, Thou preparest a table before me in the presence of mine enemies…'

She held Ren Ren's stare across the hall until he looked away. He laughed nervously. Then, winking at his companions, he began to clap his hands in ironic, slow applause, shouting, ‘
Hao!
Good!' in parody of an audience expressing appreciation for fine singing at a performance of Chinese opera. Grinning, the others followed his lead. The singing wavered under the handclaps, and died, and the scared faces gazed as if hypnotised at the blood, which was dripping from the hoes.

Sister Elena was not to be deterred. She closed her eyes to steel herself and in a loud voice that somehow did not sound like her own she began to chant the Lord's Prayer: ‘Our Father who art in heaven Hallowed be thy name Thy kingdom come…'

Ren Ren knew how to make his voice carry further.

‘The way these witches flaunt their incantations! They never give up, do they? It's as if they're asking to be burned. Well, isn't that convenient? Because that's exactly what we've come here to do.'

The meaning of his words did not sink in for a moment. Then one of the women screamed, and Elena's prayer was drowned in a low moan that grew to a wail of terror.

Ren Ren, who knew he had command now, raised his hand. ‘Ladies, ladies,' he said. ‘Please. We're not going to burn all of you—well, not till we've had a bit of fun first. Don't want to be wasteful, do we? Some of you we might not burn at all—if you're good to us, that is.'

As he was speaking the other men were circling the women, who cowered as they passed. The reason why they had come here was clear to all now, and some of those with young daughters were attempting vainly to shield them from view. They were therefore the more easily spotted. With a leer one of the villagers with a hoe reached out, grabbed a girl of sixteen and pulled her from the clasping hands of her mother, who fell on her face, crying. Within minutes, ten or eleven girls were huddled where they had been thrown near the door. Still the men prowled.

One of the older girls—Sister Elena recognised her as the wife of the farmer, Zhang Aifan, who had been among the first men to be taken out and killed—threw herself forward and flung her arms around Ren Ren's legs. ‘Take me,' she squealed. ‘Take me. I'm not really a Christian. I don't want to die.'

‘No, you're ugly,' said Ren Ren, and kicked her back into the circle. ‘Where's that one I saw earlier, the pink thing? Ah, there you are.'

With a shock Sister Elena realised that he was looking at Mary, who had pressed herself up against her mother. With a pang in her heart, she saw that the young girl's eyes were wide with terror. She realised she had to do something. She knew that it would be useless but she could not stand by and let Pastor John's daughter be taken and dishonoured—but Martha moved first. A small erect figure, eyes blazing, she stood with her fists raised in front of Ren Ren. ‘You're not taking my sister!' she said, in a high, clear voice. ‘She's going to be a nun.'

Several of the men laughed, but Ren Ren was contemplating her, smiling, appraising her. ‘What a brave one,' he said. ‘I've a good mind to have you as well. You'll grow into a nice chicken in a couple of years. She'll be good for the virgin trade, don't you think, Monkey? Take her for me, will you?'

As Monkey reached to grab her, Martha bit his hand. He roared with pain, plucked his knife from his belt and slit her throat from ear to ear. ‘Sorry, Ren Ren,' he said, wiping her blood from his tunic, ‘but that hurt.'

‘No!'
Sister Elena screamed. She was running down the nave and saw Monkey reach for his knife, and Martha's quizzical eyes, calm, frowning a little as she fell. She realised that she was too late, but her anger propelled her forward. Ren Ren had taken Mary from her mother and was dangling her by her waist, her legs kicking. He and Monkey saw the nun coming at them at the same time. Elena threw herself at Monkey, her nails scratching for his face. Instinctively he stabbed upwards with his knife, before her weight and the force of her rush knocked him off his feet. As he rolled away from her, his knife remained buried in her upper chest.

She lay on her back, bewildered, numbness spreading over her breast and into her arms and legs. She heard the gurgling sound of her own breathing, and from afar the peevish voice of that man, that horrible man: ‘What's the matter with you, Monkey? That's two of my chickens you've killed. You're a fucking turtle's egg. That's what you are. Did you know that?' Language, she thought idly, what terrible language; Father Adolphus would not approve. Above her she saw Mary's face, hanging strangely in the air above her. She saw the shocked expression on the girl's face, and tried to form words to comfort her; she felt her lips move but she thought that she might only have achieved a smile. Then she felt a crashing blow on her stomach, and her head seemed to explode. Everything went dark.

*   *   *

Ren Ren had dropped Mary, who whimpered in a huddle in the middle of a big pool of blood on the floor. He was standing with his hands on his hips looking at two villagers, who were proudly pulling a pitchfork out of the dead nun's belly and a hoe from the remains of her skull. One of them was giggling stupidly, the other whooping triumphantly.

‘Fucking peasants,' he said, shaking his head. Then he gave orders for the girls who had been chosen for the men's pleasure to be taken outside, for the doors to be barred, and for the building to be set alight. As the first flames began to lick up the side of the church, and the sound of women's screams reached a crescendo inside, he wondered how they would transport back to Shishan the goods that his men had started to bring out of the Christians' houses.

*   *   *

All was quiet at the Airtons' mission. A sliver of moon revealed itself for a moment as the clouds parted, and a pale light illuminated the room at the end of the corridor where a girl lay bound to a bed. The room stank. By the head of the bed was a bucket half full of vomit. Soon Sister Caterina would take it out and change it but she was occupied for now with bundling the diarrhoea-stained sheets she had just removed from the bed into a basket. Helen Frances was naked. All her nightdresses were soiled, and there was a stain on her white thigh where she had not yet been sponged. In a chair the doctor dozed, exhaustion making him oblivious of the animal grunts and snarls that, for the last five hours, his patient had been emitting through clenched teeth as she rolled and strained against the ropes. The moonlight revealed her staring eyes, which, fixed unblinkingly open, seemed focused on nothing, unless they were gazing inwards into whatever delirious dreams were shaking and tormenting the body on the bed. Only occasionally consciousness would appear to return to them, but then they would clench shut as the unbearable pain in legs and arms would arch the body upwards. When Caterina saw this she would stop what she was doing, and hold Helen Frances's head, steering it to the bucket, for the vomiting inevitably followed these attacks. It was a sort of routine, which the doctor, the nun and, when she could spare the time, Nellie had become used to over the last day and night. And somewhere, hovering between dream and wakefulness, the mind that was Helen Frances's, struggled to understand what was happening to her and to overcome the hatred she felt for her tormentors, and even more for herself.

*   *   *

Two days later Frank Delamere was sitting in a restaurant with his merchant friends, Lu Jincai and Jin Shangui. Ever since he had heard about the mysterious disappearance of old Tang Dexin, and the rumours that he had been a black society member and an associate of Iron Man Wang, Lu had dropped his suspicions of Jin, and some of their old intimacy had been restored. The food, as usual, was delicious but Frank found his two friends tense. They had been plying him with questions about his and the doctor's interview with the Mandarin, which had taken place that morning.

‘Well, it was all a bit strange,' said Frank, helping himself to another cup of hot rice wine. ‘Certainly the doctor thought so, and he's attended many more of these audiences than I have. Normally, apparently, the doctor's used to seeing the Mandarin alone in his private rooms, but this time we were taken to the main audience hall, which was an intimidating place. And there were a lot of unsavoury characters hanging about whom the doctor hadn't seen before. Quite unlike the sleek-looking officials you're used to seeing in the
yamen
. It was all very odd.'

Jin and Lu exchanged glances. ‘Can you tell us who they were?' asked Lu quietly.

‘Haven't a clue. Rough-looking fellows, one or two in sheepskins, lounging against the wall as if they owned the place. One of them, would you believe it? was picking his teeth with his knife. And the guards just ignored him!'

‘Didn't the Mandarin say anything?' asked Jin. ‘He is usually punctilious about the formalities.'

‘No, that was the odd thing. The Mandarin didn't say much at all. Just sat there on his dais with a blank expression on his face, looking as if he wished he were somewhere else, as if the whole thing were a frightful bore.'

‘Then who conducted the audience?'

‘That sinister-looking chamberlain of his. He did most of the talking. Unsavoury fellow. Not quite right in the head, to my mind. Had a bee in his bonnet about Christians. Kept ranting and raving about Christians disturbing the peace, and planning all sorts of villainous activities.'

Again Jin and Lu exchanged glances.

‘Naturally they were still a bit flustered about old Millward's exhibition the other day. That's not surprising. It was bizarre enough behaviour by any standard—even for that bedlam of eccentrics. Of course we told them that Millward's a maniac, that we had nothing to do with him, that his own society is about to have him strait-jacketed—but he didn't seem to take the point. Way he talked to Airton, it might have been that the doctor had planned the whole thing, given Millward orders. Doctor took it very calmly, repeated our position patiently, but I could see he was a mite upset. Especially that the Mandarin didn't intervene. Well, who wouldn't be?' He drained his cup and poured another.

‘Did you tell them about the attack on our wagon train?' asked Lu. ‘The wounding of Mr Cabot?'

‘Well, eventually—when we could get a word in edgeways after the chamberlain's ranting about the Christians. I've no complaints about that side of things, actually. They said all the right things. You know, great regrets, great embarrassment that a guest in their country should be attacked and injured. Promises to hunt the villains down. Asked a few questions about where and when it happened, and how many of them there were. Asked us to pass on congratulations to young Tom for his bravery—that was the Mandarin, one of the few times he spoke—and hope he gets well soon. Usual stuff. A bit perfunctory, I suppose, and I didn't like the ruffians grinning on the side—but they've promised to look into it, and consider some form of compensation, depending what they find out. Couldn't really ask for more.'