River of Dust (11 page)

    As a boy, the Reverend had followed his parents and two brothers down into the root cellar when tornadoes swept across the Midwestern plains. But if one member of their clan had accidentally remained outside, his father would not have hesitated to open the sloped wooden door and charge out into the winds in search of the lost. The Reverend was merely doing his fatherly duty, although, he had to admit to himself, the plains and the neighboring mountains now called to him not just of his son but of other things as well, though he could not name them precisely. Sometimes their call woke him from sleep, and he had no choice but to go.

    He shook his head lightly and told himself to remain on track this morning. His goal was near at hand. He opened the leather-bound volume and slackened the reins. As the chill of the morning wore off and the late-autumn sun rose higher in the sky, the hide warmed him most pleasantly. The chieftain had been right: wearing the fur did make him feel less vulnerable to sorrow. The Reverend smiled as he recognized lines of poetry he knew by heart. He pinched shut his eyes, tilted his face into the sunlight, and recited them under his breath. He felt most blessed precisely when he made the least effort to be so.

    "Master!" Ahcho called out. "Look ahead."

    The Reverend's eyes snapped open. They had passed the final turn of the mountainside, and there before them stood a vast field of late-blooming poppies and, beyond it, an open expanse where deepmaroon-colored tents had been set up and people gathered.

    "It is as the chieftain described," the Reverend said.

    Ahcho pulled up beside him on his donkey and offered that skeptical look again. The man was a worrier, a naysayer even.

    "This is where Fate has carried us," the Reverend said. "We must trust our path, Ahcho, if we are ever to achieve our ends."

    Ahcho nodded, although he appeared unconvinced. "Please be cautious, sir."

    The Reverend let out a laugh and spurred his donkey forward. "It will be all right, Ahcho. Everything works out in the end."

    Out of the corner of his eye, the Reverend saw Ahcho shaking his head. The proof was in the pudding, the Reverend would have liked to say, but the serious fellow would never have been able to grasp that strange idiom.

    Instead, the Reverend called back, "Come along!"

    The poppies danced in the wind, their glorious Chinese-red skirts swaying. The Reverend knew that these flowers were the culprits that caused every opium fool to loll away his life, but for the moment he did not care. He was going to carry his son home on his lap through this field and even allow the boy to pick a few.

    As they approached the crowd, the Reverend noticed the colorful glow of the tents. This primitive festival resembled a circus back home. He could recall the great excitement with which the locals ran out to the field at the edge of their town when the Barnum & Bailey train pulled to a stop. Every year, a motley-looking crew unloaded dozens of red boxcars, each inscribed with fine gold lettering and holding the most extraordinary sights: exotic animals coaxed and prodded down steep ramps and blinking in the bright sunlight. The Reverend had first seen camels in this way, and an elephant, too. Had he not witnessed them with his own eyes, he would never have believed that the Lord had such an imagination.

    And, sadly, the same held true of the poor souls trapped in the sideshow. He had only spied the freaks inside that tent briefly for fear that his mother would catch him and send him home. But it had made a deep impression upon him, one that had factored into his decision to dedicate his life to the Lord and to come to China as a missionary.

    Souls, the young John Wesley had realized, could be forgotten, misshapen, even mangled, and yet people were forced to live on and carry the burden of their deadened spirits for years. He had felt lucky as a boy to belong to a hardy race that lived well enough to help free others from their unfortunate lot. His soul was never in question, for he felt he had spirit in surplus— enough, indeed, to rescue others from their paltry allotment.

    There on the Midwestern plains, he had pulled his small head away from the flaps of the sideshow tent and looked back across the cultivated fields of corn that rose high in late summer. The tassels swayed with such grace that he had understood, even as a boy, that something had to be done. Rows of crops were planted with care and strict order to create a satisfying harvest. So, too, it must be with human lives. People needed a way to manage the sheer chaos of their misery.

    What a pure and sturdy understanding to recall at this time of rising doubt, the Reverend thought now as he approached the festival. Perhaps he would soon have ample reason to return to the timeworn theological track.

    It was unbelievable to him that his dear, angelic child could be considered in that same unsightly category of lost souls by these ignorant people. Absurd but true to human nature: we don't trust that which we don't know and recognize. A blond boy was as alien as a god in their midst. Or a devil.

    The Reverend felt his heart speed up as he and Ahcho halted, dismounted, and tied their donkeys to a tree. Somewhere amongst the crowd milling on the field at the edge of the mountain was his precious boy, no freak at all but his own flesh and blood.

A
man tipped back his head and thrust a flaming stick into his open mouth. A blind charmer blew into his flute, and snakes stood upright like question marks. A giant swallowed a bucket of nails until his belly sagged under the groaning weight. Thick men clad in bright loincloths and boots circled, charged, and gripped oiled biceps, struggling to fell one another like massive, entwined oaks. Other sportsmen appeared to be flicking some sort of animal bone at a target with the goal of trying to knock yet more animal bones away while nearby an archery contest looked ready to commence. It all appeared good fun, this field day on the edge of a cliff. The Reverend felt he just might like to join in. But as he strode forward, the crowd parted and shuffled anxiously to keep out of his way.

    Ahcho kept pace, and the Reverend was grateful, for he had not anticipated the shock on the faces as they looked up at him. He was a large man, he knew that. Six foot four ever since his seventeenth birthday. These country folk had no doubt never seen a white man before. And he supposed that the animal skin did nothing to make him appear more approachable. Ah, well. He would use it to his advantage. If they were intimidated by him, he could gather up his son all the quicker and make his departure posthaste. He would be the Ghost Man of their dreams if it helped him to secure his own.

    He heard them whispering and assumed they spoke that very name as he brushed past. Many turned aside or shut their eyes, afraid, he supposed, of what he might do to them if they looked at him directly. Ahcho had hinted that the animal hide made even him feel ill at ease, for who knew what reason. The Reverend's number-one boy was no longer superstitious but a true Christian through and through. He glanced over at him now and nodded in appreciation of his devotion and dependability. Ahcho kept his hand under his robe and looked as tense as a rubber band ready to snap. Perhaps in this one instance, his manservant's penchant for worry was well placed.

    The Reverend ducked his head deeper into the hide and balanced the wolf 's jaw over his brow. When he straightened himself to his full height with the animal head now atop his own, he must have measured a full seven feet tall. The Reverend chuckled to himself, for he realized that he, too, now belonged in the sideshow tent.

    He swept his arms up under the fur cloak and spun around to face the assembled crowd. The fire breather stopped tossing his fire. The giant with the nails in his belly belched quietly to himself. The flute music died abruptly, and the snakes dropped to the dirt like useless pieces of rope. Nomad mothers pulled their children into their heavy skirts and turned the babies strapped to their backs away from the great, ghostly spectacle before them.

    The Reverend cleared his throat and looked about for someone in charge of this ragtag scene. He whispered to Ahcho under his breath, "Do you see any sign of a ringmaster?"

    Ahcho inched closer and looked at him with uncomprehending eyes. "A ring, Master?"

    "The fellow in charge," the Reverend clarified.

    "No one is in charge here. That is the problem," Ahcho said, then glanced around and said, "The Reverend is aware they surround us on all sides?"

    "Indeed. No need to worry, dear fellow," the Reverend said.

    It was true. Around the edges of the crowd, men wearing brightly patterned jackets and matching hats sat atop diminutive, though sturdy and strong, horses. The Reverend could not help noticing the grand archery bows held in position by a clever apparatus at their sides. These horse-riding nomads had been known throughout history for their warring streak. They were nothing if not fierce. The crowd had closed ranks by now, and he was the main attraction.

    The Reverend glanced over their heads and spied a sorry-looking elephant grazing amongst a herd of camels and horses. The skin on the enormous animal sagged miserably, and the Reverend wondered about the pathetic life the once magnificent creature had endured here with these barbarians. Then his face went hot as he allowed himself to consider what his boy had suffered in their midst as well.

    The Reverend lifted his arms again, and the crowd stepped back a pace. His first instinct was to reassure them, but instead, he forced himself to make a fearsome face.

    "Listen to me!" he began.

    His powerful voice did nothing to set their worried brows at ease. If anything, hearing him speak their tongue only rattled them more. He thought he heard a fearful shriek from the back of the audience, although perhaps that was only the sound of the wind whipping up and over the cliff. The Reverend glanced at the sky and noticed a cloud bank approaching from the west. The weather on the steppes was notoriously unpredictable, and he hoped they were not in for a sudden storm. Although the quickly approaching shadows helped magnify the unsettled mood, which could work nicely in the Reverend's favor.

    "Give me back my son, and I, the Ghost Man, will leave you in peace!"

    Ahcho moved closer, and the Reverend could tell that even his skeptical number-one boy was impressed by his alarming tone.

    "He is small." The Reverend lowered his arm toward the ground and put his hand at just the height where dear Wesley's head would have been. "And his hair," the Reverend reached for a hank of fur from the wolf 's head atop his own, "his hair is the color of the sun!"

    The crowd let out a gasp.

    "Bring him to me, and then you may return to your festival."

    The crowd stirred, and several of the burly, half-naked wrestlers marched off. The Reverend felt certain they would return in a moment's time with his son's hand in theirs. He waited and forced his expression to betray nothing of his excitement.

    After a few long moments, the crowd parted, and the Reverend could not help the broad smile that overtook his countenance in anticipation. The people whispered, and several even clapped their hands, for everyone, except perhaps Ahcho, who remained as sternlooking as ever, knew that a miracle was about to take place before their eyes.

    The row of grandmothers and grandfathers at the front of the crowd bowed and stepped aside. The children scurried off. Then there, before the Reverend, appeared a blond head, so blond as to be freakishly white.

    The Reverend staggered back.

    "Are you all right, Master?" Ahcho asked and reached under the hide to take the Reverend's arm.

    The Reverend did not speak.

    A stout form waddled toward him. It was not a child's face but a man's, pink and with pink eyes. He blinked wildly under no eyebrows or lashes, as if it hurt him just to see. The small creature looked painfully raw and unfinished, and the Reverend could not help but think that the Lord had left this lump of clay only half molded. He looked away in disgust. He had never before seen a more hideous human being.

    "Great Ghost Man," the albino midget said, his high voice shaking. "You have come to save me!" He threw himself onto the ground and began to kiss the Reverend's boots.

    The Reverend stepped out of his reach and shouted, "Stand up, man. Do not grovel like an animal!"

    The midget rose and wiped tears off his cheeks with his thick arm clothed in a colorful tunic. But his tears kept coming, and the Reverend saw that the hideous fellow was unable to control himself.

    "Whatever is the matter?" he asked.

    "My misery will soon end," the man whimpered. "You will kill me, and I will finally meet my ancestors. I should never have been born, and now my time on this earth will be over. I am most grateful to you." The man let out a sob and raised his head and shut his eyes, as if expecting to be smote down by the Reverend in the next instant.

    The Reverend swallowed. Could those be his own tears rising up

behind his eyes? He had become so resistant to allowing his grief to reveal itself that he hardly recognized the sensation. There was no mistaking, though, that the man before him was wretched to his very soul. His body was a travesty and his entire being spoiled and irretrievable. The Lord had seen to that.

    The midget opened his eyes again but remained cowering, still waiting for the blow. The Reverend stared into the frightened and frightening pink eyes. The man's features resembled those of other Mongols, but his skin lacked color to the point of virtual transparency. Blue veins rose up the thick neck and coursed behind fragile temples. The slick, tear-soaked cheeks resembled pulp more than flesh. He was made only of the most base of human matter and nothing divine.