The Palace of Heavenly Pleasure (29 page)

Airton could hardly breathe for sheer joy. He had achieved, unexpectedly, his ambition in coming to China. Here was a member of the mandarin class—a Confucian, a pagan, but a man of enormous influence—who was reading the Bible and seeking to understand its precepts. To what might this lead? he wondered. The Mandarin's first questions were sceptical—even cynical—as was only to be expected, but it was a start. The start of which he and his fellow missionaries had always dreamed.

That first meeting was followed by another two days later, and after a time the doctor and the Mandarin had settled into a regular routine. The Mandarin liked to take a parable at a time, and in each case would apply his most rigorous logic to penetrate the message behind it. The doctor would reel out of each challenging session as exhausted in body and mind as he had been after the games of squash he had played at university as a boy. He never knew where the Mandarin's ball would come from.

By a tacit agreement, neither mentioned the death of Hiram again nor the execution that had followed it. The subject of Boxers or bandits rarely came into their conversation, and if it did it was smiled away. For the doctor, the Mandarin's questions appeared to have become more and more abstruse. He seemed fascinated by the Christian concept of goodness, asking how it differed from the virtues enunciated by Confucius. If a ruler really had the benefit of his subjects at heart, he would ask, then should it matter if he achieved his virtuous ends by foul means? Was a reward in heaven denied if a Christian strayed from the restrictive Ten Commandments? Were the certain rewards of this earth really worth sacrificing for only the promise of salvation? If Christianity was the gentle religion that the good Daifu made it out to be, then why were its precepts so fanatical and absolute? Not that he wished to offend in any way the Son of God, but was not this Jesus a little unworldly, perhaps? And please could the doctor explain how the powers of the West had managed to conquer the world if their principles consisted only of loving their neighbours and turning the other cheek.

‘This rendering unto Caesar what is Caesar's and unto God what is God's,' the Mandarin would say, ‘is all very well. In our system it is much simpler, since our emperor happens to be a god. Why did not your Jesus, who had, if I am to understand the other tale of His encounter with the Devil on a mountain, the power to rule the wrold, take on Himself the authority of Caesar? If He had He would not have had to worry about this untidy problem of free will.'

‘Ah, but, Da Ren, don't you see? It is in the fact that He gave us free will that we have our salvation.'

‘If He had worked in a
yamen
instead of strolling around the hillsides, He might have had a better understanding of ignorant human nature. In my experience, free will is only a curse, leading to the most outrageous forms of behaviour if one leaves it unchecked. I do not believe that this Jesus could have loved His people if He set them such impossibly high demands.'

‘But Jesus was the God of Love,' exclaimed Airton.

‘So you say,' muttered the Mandarin, biting into a peach.

But the doctor was not disheartened. On the contrary, hope gleamed in his eyes. Sometimes he even dared to wonder whether the Mandarin was at last beginning to question his own cynical principles. As soon as he detected such a thought, of course, he immediately repressed it as fanciful or overoptimistic. No, this new interest in the Christian religion was only academic; nothing in the Mandarin's manner revealed anything other than his usual bland curiosity; if there were spiritual yearnings churning behind the hooded eyes and sardonic, worldly expression, they remained concealed. Yes, yes, but on the other hand, the irrepressible voice shouted from inside, here was a high official of the mandarin class seriously asking questions about the Gospel! It hadn't happened for years! And he
must
have been reading his copy of the Holy Bible, which he, Airton, had inspired him to acquire! His natural sense of modesty struggled vainly with his ambition. He was pitifully aware of his own limitations, of course, but he could not be blind to the potential. If curiosity led to understanding, could understanding not lead to desire, and desire to conversion? Virtue lay not in himself—he was a humble Scottish doctor who practised medicine and liked cowboy books, no theologian he, certainly not, but the Lord had been known to fill the humblest vessel with His light, and work His wonders with the weakest of clay. A conversion of a mandarin could lead to the conversion of a district: St Augustine's conversion of England had begun with the baptism of a minor Saxon king; in China where Matteo Ricci and his army of Jesuits had failed, could humble Airton of Shishan not be the one … At which stage the doctor would chew firmly on his pipe and tell himself not to be so preposterous and vainglorious—but that did not stop him spending feverish evenings in his study with volumes of Plato, Aquinas and Boethius, which he had not looked at since his university days, and rushing out of his door to the
yamen
on the days of his appointments scarcely finishing his lunch.

*   *   *

The other foreign residents of Shishan were unaware of the doctor's preoccupations. Helen Frances and Henry Manners went out riding every afternoon. Frank Delamere and Tom Cabot were feverishly preparing for the great expedition that would make their fortunes. A late October evening found them in the Babbit and Brenner godown locking up for the night. They had made a final check of the bundles of samples and provisions they were to load the following day onto the mules that would carry them to Tsitsihar and their appointment with Mr Ding. The last line of salmon pink was fading on the far horizon. A night wind started to blow. ‘That's the last of it, old boy,' muttered Frank, his pipe thrust firmly under the moustache in the florid face, the kindly brown eyes watering with amusement at one of his prospective son-in-law's jokes—Tom seemed to have an inexhaustible supply of comic stories. ‘One last night in the comforts of hearth and home. Then it's the wide open spaces for us. How I love this life. And what a joy it is to me that you and my little Helen Frances will soon be joining together. I'm a lucky man. A lucky man.'

‘We'd better set off, sir, if we're to meet HF at the crossroads,' said Tom, bringing the horses. ‘Henry said they'd get there shortly after dark.'

*   *   *

‘Ho there!' called out Frank. ‘Is that you, my dear?'

A lantern was bobbing along the road that led from the direction of the railway camp, slowly drawing nearer to where Tom and he were waiting on the crossroads. He could faintly hear the clopping of horses' hoofs. He sensed Tom reaching quietly for the rifle in the side holster. Tom was right, of course, to take precautions. One never knew nowadays who might be out there in the night.

‘Ho there!' he called again. ‘Manners! Helen Frances! Is that you?'

There was no answer, but a wind was blowing strongly and his voice might well have been carried away in the wrong direction.

‘I'm sure it is them, Tom,' he said. ‘After all, who else could it be? Dashed late, though. Wonder where they've been.'

‘Apparently there's a ruined temple about six miles south of the rail camp,' said Tom.

‘Oh, Lord,' groaned Frank. ‘Ruined temples. Monasteries. You'd think Manners was some bloody Buddhist or something. Manners! Is that you?' he called. ‘Helen Frances!'

Still no answer.

‘Don't know why you ever agreed to letting her go on these damn tourist trips in the first place,' grumbled Frank. ‘Mrs Airton was decent enough to offer the girl a job in the hospital, and if Manners can afford all this time away from the railway company I don't know why they sent him out here. Not having you getting any ideas, by the way, young man.' He turned to Tom. ‘No half-days at Babbit and Brenner.'

‘No, sir.' Tom smiled. ‘Never expected it.'

‘Why don't they get on with it?' muttered Frank. ‘Look, tell you what I'm going to do. I'm going to light a lamp. Shouting in this gale doesn't do any damn good. Got one in my pack. Have a nip of whisky at the same time.' Heavily he dismounted from his horse.

‘Want any help?' asked Tom.

‘No, I'm all right. Not senile yet.'

Tom could hear the older man puffing in the darkness, the tinkling of glass and the gurgle of liquid, then more clinking of metal and glass as Frank began to fiddle with the hurricane lamp. He himself grasped his rifle stock and peered at the bobbing lantern, which he judged to be about a quarter of a mile away and moving very slowly.

‘There we have it,' said Frank. ‘Be ready in a tick.'

Tom blinked at the sudden blaze of light. Then he heard a cry from Frank, the lamp clattered to the ground and went out. Frank's horse reared, startling his own, which bucked. It was all he could do to stay in the saddle, and inadvertently his finger squeezed the trigger and his gun went off with a flash and a bang. It took some moments for him to bring his nervous mount under control again, then over the horses' snorts he heard Frank whisper, ‘Did you see him?'

‘See whom?' Tom also felt impelled to whisper.

‘The priest,' said Frank. ‘The blind fellow. The one who scared Helen Frances. The Boxer priest. The sinister bugger Charlie was telling us about. I saw him sitting in the middle of the road.'

‘Where?'

‘There. Right under our bloody feet, no eyes in his head but he still looked baleful and menacing. Sort of jumped up when the light went on and crashed into me. Felt cold and flabby when I grabbed him, and he slipped from my grasp like an eel. By then the light was out and the horses were leaping all over the place. Lucky he didn't stick a knife in my ribs, isn't it? Hold on, where's the damn hurricane? Let me get it going again.'

After more puffing and tinkling the lamp was lit. Frank held it high so its beams shone on as wide an area as possible, but the roads and the bare fields on every side were empty.

‘Damn, he's got clean away,' said Frank. ‘You wouldn't believe it, would you? Makes me think I imagined it.'

‘You sure it wasn't some animal, sir? A wild cat? A small deer?'

‘No, no, looked like a man. Felt like one. Sort of. And I won't forget the empty eyeholes. Look, Tom, no word to Helen Frances about this, all right? You and I are off to Tsitsihar for a few weeks and I don't want her frightened while we're gone.'

A clatter of hoofs and Henry Manners and Helen Frances rode into the circle of light. Lao Zhao, with the mule and the lantern, followed close behind. Manners had his rifle unslung as did Lao Zhao.

‘We heard a shot,' said Manners, surveying the scene, relaxing, holstering his gun. ‘What happened?'

‘Oh, nothing. You know me,' said Frank heartily. ‘Clumsy oaf. Going for my whisky bottle in the saddlepack. Trod on the horse's foot. He reared. One thing led to another. Tom's fingers slipped on his blunderbuss. Bloody French farce, eh? God knows how we're going to manage on the road to Tsitsihar.'

‘Father, Tom, are you both all right?' asked Helen Frances, her riding hat awry, eyes wide with concern.

‘Right as rain, old girl. Aren't we, Tom?'

‘And anyway, we're the ones who've been worried. Where have you been?' asked Tom, leaning from his saddle to peck his fiancée on the cheek. ‘HF, we really thought you must have been lost.'

‘We saw this glorious temple. There was a tomb and a sort of crenellated wall around a mound. Henry helped me climb up to the top and—'

‘Sounds wonderful, darling,' said Tom. ‘Thank you, Henry, as always. But we've got to be going. We really must. HF, you know it's the last night in town for your father and me, and we did promise to call in at the doctor's on the way. Henry, will you be going back to the rail camp? Of course you're welcome to ride with us.'

‘Don't worry about Lao Zhao and me, old boy. We'll be all right. One Miss Delamere sealed and safely delivered, that's our duty done. You really should come with us one day on these rides. You don't know how you're losing out.'

‘Maybe when I get back from Tsitsihar,' said Tom. ‘I am grateful, Henry, the way you're looking after her.'

‘My pleasure,' said Manners. ‘And don't worry about anything while you're away. You know you can trust Lao Zhao and me to continue to—'

‘Thanks, Henry,' said Tom, his tone a trifle brittle. ‘I know she's in good hands.'

‘The very best,' murmured Manners. ‘I'm talking about Lao Zhao, of course. Knows the country like a tracker. Every temple and monastery for miles.'

‘You mean you're going on more rides while we're away?' asked Frank grumpily. ‘How many more damn temples are there to see around this town, anyway? Don't you two get fed up with it all?'

‘Oh, Papa,' said Helen Frances irritably.

‘Actually, there's going to be a bit of a treat while you're away, Mr Delamere,' said Manners. ‘Sorry you two won't be here for it. We'll be blowing the tunnel in the Black Hills and Charlie's arranging a weekend of picnics. I think the Airtons are coming as well.'

‘If the Airtons are there, that's fine,' said Frank. ‘They're in charge of Helen Frances while Tom and I are gone. That's where she's staying too, by the way. They're her chaperones—not that I trust chaperones, these days. Tom was meant to be her chaperon on the ship coming over here and look what bloody happened with him.'

‘Hope you're not disappointed, sir,' said Tom.

‘That's an understatement if ever there was one. Still, if I have to marry my daughter off to a gorilla, I might have picked a worse one.' He climbed heavily into his saddle. ‘Come on, then, you chaps. Are we going or not? ‘Bye, Manners. See you in a month or so. Enjoy your temples.
Om mani padme hom
and all that. I expect you and Helen Frances to be thoroughly enlightened by the time we get back. Living Buddhas at the least. ‘Bye.'