A Superior Man (7 page)

At a recent meal, I had joined some men chatting about Centipede Mountain and spoken too much about its hidden trails and shortcuts. Shorty, much smarter than I had thought, heard me and asked how I came to know those long hills. After all, wasn't my village located far away?

“Hauled loads through the region,” I replied.

“Liar! Bandits ruled Centipede Mountain,” said Shorty. “I know you. Your gang raided my village. We fought and killed one of you.”

I stated Grandfather's good name and demanded proof from
Shorty, but he insisted that I knew far too much about the region.

Damn my itchy mouth. I had only wanted to make new friends. Poy was tagged as my partner in crime.

I appealed to the crewmen. “When there is no rice, children still must eat. Can anyone here swear to Heaven that no one in his family ever stole?”

The brothers accused me of blackening everyone's name. But we all knew from experience that bandit gangs never had trouble recruiting new members. Of course my co-workers had spent time among robber bands. We all came from wretched backgrounds; we all faced the lack and losses that Heaven cast upon us. Few people dared to be as self-righteous as Shorty.

Each crewman knew war and hunger as surely as his own name. The Guest Wars forced my village to flee to the hills. Armed bands crisscrossed the counties, burning crops and seizing livestock, smashing docks and bridges. Walled villages were set ablaze as clouds of black smoke turned day into night. Grandmother and Mother huddled with us children, beseeching Heaven and the ancestors for help. Before this turmoil, the Red Scarf bandits had rebelled against the emperor and demanded food from everyone.

“Guard your back,” Shorty warned me. “You set the shed on fire, so the oxen ran. You killed the boy guarding the rice. You threw a net over our chickens and carried them off.”

“You have eyes that can see in the dark?” I asked. “You must see ghosts too!”

I confessed nothing and he proved even less. My gang had raided villages now and then, but only ones that were poorly defended. We attacked mostly merchant convoys.

After this, I had kept far away from cockhead Shorty, at camp and in the forest.

“Let me move Pig Boy.” California's face was grim, darker than usual. He gave everyone a pained look. “One day, you might do the same for me.”

High Hat beamed. California was the only man who had worked in Gold Mountain before, in America. He had walked 800 miles to this job, but so far, hadn't spoken more than twenty words to anyone. A relaxed air hung around him; his clothes were well-worn while all of us were stiff in starch-hardened denim pants. His shirt buttons were flat painted wood; ours were coiled from cloth tubing. He knew English but never argued with Crew Boss.

High Hat egged us on, saying, “Be kind, receive kindness.”

Old South stepped forward. He and Old North had been coolies in South Ocean, in Malaya. They sneered that railway work was child's play compared to tin mines. Their pigtails were dry and brittle; any touch caused bits of hair to flake off.

“You see?” High Hat waggled his finger. “Men who have worked abroad, they know very well that China men must unite and take care of each other. We must learn from them.”

Old North cursed and stalked to the back. On the first night of camp, he had denounced the younger crew members. At dinner call, they rushed into the cooking tent while Old North tried to stop them. “At my home,” he said, “elders always go first. Isn't it so in your village?”

The young men paid him no attention until High Hat stepped in.

The cheerless brothers scratched itches and bites and looked away, their motto of “mutual help lifts everyone” all but forgotten.

At last High Hat broke the circle of shame and offered himself. It was the only way to attract another brother to help. He glared at his men and said, “Just one more fellow is needed.”

“Me,” said Poy.

I pulled him aside and hissed, “We're going to America! If we stay, we will die.”

“Will you do my funeral?”

“I could die first. Remember how one man ruined my people?”

“The Five Tigers?”

“You're going to thrust something dirty into the soil. You think earth spirits here don't mind?”

“We're respecting the dead. What god would disapprove?” He walked away.

A hundred years ago, our clan had raided a no-name village. We expected its people to flee. But they stood their ground, armed with axes, pitchforks, and magic charms worn at the neck. They suffered the bullying of bigger villages because their small number had chosen to stay and protect an ancient god. Then their god regained its power. In that raid, a Yang man purposely stomped on one of the god's charms. At that very moment, the battle changed course: our raid leader was fatally stabbed. Soon the Five Tigers fields that once enriched the Yang clan passed into the hands of the no-name. It was all blamed on that one fool.

The no-names were renowned now but no Yang man ever spoke their name aloud. We kowtowed to them and donated prizes to their festivals and cash to their temple no matter how our harvest fared. When they paraded their patron god through our village, crowing all the while, we served them choice snacks. Anyone who refused
got cut off from trading at the market. If they walked into a crowded teahouse, then we gulped our food and gave up our seats and tables. Redbeard bullies here were nothing new to me.

“Back to work, all of you!” Bookman shouted. “We can manage this.”

As Poy left with High Hat, the older man clapped his back. “You and me, we will help this man and then fly through the skies with the Immortals.”

The crewmen hurried away, glad the matter was settled. They were rarely so keen to grab their saws and axes. When the light caught their steel for a moment, a glimmer brightened the forest.

Old North pulled me along. “Screw those two, let them go. If they want to do noble deeds, then let them die noble deaths.”

With my teeth, I cinched a strip of cloth around my blistered hands. I should have thumped Poy's head with an axe. Coming to Gold Mountain was my idea; therefore I decided the big moves. When Poy had fretted about going abroad, I explained the contract and told him not to worry. Now we couldn't sneak off to America: killing airs raised the risk of misfortune.

“Is he your brother?” Old North referred to both family and clan.

“Friend.”

“But you know words. Shouldn't he listen to you?”

“He's older.”

“Everyone should have someone watching over him.”

“I take care of myself!”

We tested the two-man saw, but then Old North pulled and pushed too fast.

“Slower!” I shouted. “No need to die for the redbeards.”

At the start of work, we had been too eager to show our mettle to Crew Boss. We made the long saws sing but crippled ourselves with blisters and aching backs. Next day we slowed down.

I looked through the trees. Poy should be strolling over, a sheepish look on his stupid face. He should regain his senses and avoid the corpse. That bumpkin needed prudent guidance, all the time. Me, I had gone to school for a few years.

We had met on Centipede Mountain. I was new to the bandits, whose youngest member was Shrimp Boy, a vicious thug of thirteen, younger than me. Gang leader Cudgel was a filthy lout with a fiery temper and rusty but lethal halberd. Shrimp Boy scouted out targets and didn't back off from missions that Cudgel deemed too risky. He chafed under Cudgel's rule and vented his anger on me. I had to empty twenty men's shit and piss each day and then wash the buckets with creek water. That was Shrimp Boy's job, but he lorded over newcomers. Only Poy helped me carry the stinking pails beyond the range of the men's noses. Even then, he never said much.

For my first time at the brothel, Poy found me a pretty girl, guaranteed to be clean. I returned many times to her.

At the opium house, Poy watched that I never smoked a second pipe, no matter what discount the boss offered. I did the same for Poy.

After the bandit gang fell apart, we always met at the day's end to share the food we had scrounged.

On payday in Canada, I checked Poy's earnings. He couldn't read and didn't know his numbers. The first time I got paid, I accused Bookman of stealing. I received a total of $6.73 for twenty-six days of work. I had figured three times that amount. Then Bookman
listed the costs for rent, food, and ship's passage, plus payment for boots, blanket, and hat.

Right away I warned the men that no one would ever get rich here.

“You think saving money is easy?” they scoffed. “You need to suffer.”

When I urged Poy to sneak off to America, he shrugged. “They'll break your leg.”

Company guards in every town watched the docks. We had heard that any coolie caught running away got a crushing whack on the knee.

“I could break my leg strolling through the forest,” I said. “You too.”

“We owe money.”

“Screw the Company. Only in America will we get rich.”

In China, returnees loudly touted America with the vigor of roadside vendors peddling noodles and fresh fruit at day's end. American towns and cities with tall buildings and fancy mansions offered plenty of jobs. Workers stayed clean and dry inside machine-driven factories. On wide flat roads, people drove their own horse-drawn carriages. A thousand times more people lived there than in Canada, it was said, and America's great railway had been laid a decade ago, so its people had been starting businesses and getting rich there for over ten years.

Old North and I took down one tree and were halfway through another when we stopped to return to camp. There, crew members were in a panic.

We had none of our women here, yet only they had power to dispel the corpse's killing airs.

Where could we find swatches of bright red to wear, to fend off Pig Boy's ghost?

How could a stranger not related to Pig Boy go and buy water from the river gods to wash the body? It defied common sense. If the body wasn't washed, then Pig Boy couldn't cross to the other world. He would stay to torment us.

The fiercest debate was this: If we couldn't manage the ritual properly, then should we try it at all? If we started the rites and then fumbled them, that would enrage the deceased and cast ruin onto everyone. We were already seeing too many accidents. No one wanted more blood or death. This was why we needed experts to conduct the funeral. Everyone cursed the brotherhood for acting rashly, for telling everyone what to do.

“Didn't stink before but now it does.”

I was walking away when Bookman shoved his penknife and a block of wood at me.

“Carve Pig Boy's surname,” he said. “Scrape deep and make it pretty.”

I thrust my hands behind my back.

“Don't worry, cockhead, you'll get paid so you'll be protected.” Then he added, “No one else here knows words.”

The name contained six strokes, spaced well apart, so it was easy to scrape them into the wood and make the curves wide and smooth. I asked for oil to rub over the rough surface, but Head Cook refused.

High Hat and the three others came back and ate dinner alone. They took turns that night stoking a campfire to keep wild animals away from the body.

In our tent, men were keen to talk, shouting loudly to assert our will to live, recalling rituals gone wrong that ought not be repeated.

In Up Creek village, Cho had no future because he was his father's third son. But his two hardworking uncles lacked heirs. When one of them died, Cho went to the river, bought water, and washed the body. That let him take the funds his uncle had left for this. When the other uncle passed away, Cho offered to do the same. The grannies cried out, “No, don't! You look greedy, not kindly.”

But Cho was under the sway of Jesus men and said he wasn't afraid. He came home from the funeral sweaty and hot, and filled his mouth with ripened fruit. A pit lodged in his throat, choking him. He died flailing on the floor.

Next morning, High Hat announced, “The grave will be dug this morning. Bookman says we can return earlier this afternoon with no loss of pay. I will be Chief Mourner and buy water. Men with the surnames Chew, Jang, Gwan, and Liu must offer wine at the service. After the burial, we will burn the belongings of our friend. Each man can cleanse himself in the smoke. After that, seven days of mourning.”

The rest of the crewmen took themselves as far away as possible from the funeral. They stayed in the forest and worked. I returned to camp with men who planned to nap.

“Your friend does the right thing,” Shorty said to me, sneering. “He atones for his crimes. You should do the same.”

“Who says he's a bandit?”

“He confesses by handling that dirty thing. Why else would a young man do that?”

That idiot Poy should have told me about wanting to amend his
ways. How in hell could a chicken know the duck's conscience? I could have devised a way out. Now that shit-hole prick Shorty could pretend to be smarter than me.

Old North walked by. “Your quiet friend,” he asked, “how do you know him?”

“From the docks of Hong Kong.”

He was decent enough not to ask about the bandit gang.

“Your people know him?”

“No. No one else wanted to come. I didn't want to cross the ocean alone.”

“You should have found someone closer, a kinsman. Look at that fool, touching everything. Only kinsmen won't betray you.”

I veered into the forest and slammed my axe into a tree. My father hadn't been home in twelve years. Travellers saw him in Singapore where he tended a shop and raised children with a local woman. He was polite enough to answer to his name and home village but would not admit his true family. Visitors pressed him about money, duties to his father, and memories of his mother. No answer. It was the same with our many letters asking why he had left us and what it would take to get him home.