A Superior Man Read online

  “Not yet. She lives near Cache Creek.” I mentioned getting a guide tomorrow.

  “A superior man knows the way.” He smiled but his gaze went elsewhere and he nodded at someone.

  “Boss Joe, I have no other way to say this. Great men have great capacity, so please excuse these poor manners. I need help.”

  “Cash?”

  “A redbeard lawman stole my savings, four hundred dollars. I was heading home to China. Then he threw me into jail.”

  “I don’t even know your name.”

  “Other people, strangers, helped me along the way. A good heart never fears action.”

  “Those people were better men than me.” Boss Joe turned to leave, but the brat held up his cone of peanuts.

  “Decent boy!” He took a few and patted Peter’s head. “Come to the banquet, both of you! Out-of-town visitors pass the night for free; you can join them.”

  “Did anyone come from Cache Creek?” I asked. Such a person might offer a free ride.

  “Fish Eyes! Go into the temple and ask for Fish Eyes.”

  Thanking him politely, I stepped back with lowered head, and almost turned to leave. Then I pressed the two bottles of liquor into his hands.

  “You lack money but carry wine?”

  “Pinched it from Yuen’s store.”

  He laughed.

  If Boss Joe was also pushing me to the temple, then clearly the destination was fated. I had, after all, made a vow to go there while locked in that shit-pit prison. Man proposes but Heaven disposes. Sojourners viewed His Holiness, the god in Lytton, as far more potent than the lesser gods in the temples of Yale and Victoria. It couldn’t hurt to ask Fist’s questions. A lane along the main building led to the temple entrance. Spades and hoes, rakes and shoulder poles leaned in the shade against a log wall. The China men of Lytton were ready to brawl. They knew a thing or two about honour.

  A guard by the door let me enter. The vast hall had few windows; oil lamps and candles gave light. A small crowd gathered around a fan-tan table while men at two tables of mah-jongg were mixing tiles and shouting their way through a match. The boy and I crept to one side. Fools who approached a table in the middle of a match and opened their mouths could easily get lambasted for changing the flow of luck.

  We drank tea at a side table. My stomach rumbled. I marvelled that the boy wasn’t whining about hunger. Perhaps he was used to food shortages. Maybe the stepfather liked his own children better and starved my boy. Did Mary’s husband resent her life among the redbeards before she entered his?

  It had been a long time since my last mah-jongg game. My play would be slow at the start but I needed to be running, even flying, before walking. The key move was to palm the flower tiles while we were mixing them. Then, from watching the dice roll, I would know where to plant my tiles. The cast-off tiles would tell me who was playing what hands. Hopefully no one would notice in the dim light that the wall in front of me was short by two tiles.

  An expert once said to me, “Hok, there is no such thing as a bad hand of mah-jongg tiles.” He lay open his hands and spread his fingers, palms up. Then he tapped his forehead. “It’s what you know that lets you win.”

  By the tea table, a man hunched over a water pipe lit his tobacco with a long, glowing taper. Scrolls of brushwork covered the logs of the walls. I wondered if Soohoo’s work was here too. Two short lines from the Master caught my eye: “Brave men fear naught; the wise don’t fret.”

  A steady trickle of men paid respect to the statue of His Holiness. I watched because it was rare to see so many men in a temple without women fussing around them, insisting on the proper methods. On the altar, the wooden carving of His Holiness was small and dark, wrapped in stiff, faded garments sparkling with gold and silver threads. The statues of guardian gods were larger, their porcelain bright from fine paint. They held spears and war-axes. Their beards hung long and smooth, unlike those unkempt bushes worn like coarse bristles on the faces of redbeards. The urn of sand before the altar was full of red sticks, the tail ends of incense.

  Guan Gung, the God of War, sat with his red face alert, eyebrows raised, the green civilian robe over his armour, a great halberd by his side, and an open book in his hands. My family worshipped a statue of him, even Grandfather. When he went to town to sell rice, he nodded and muttered at Guan Gung, seeking his protection. In the bandit gang, Guan Gung was the patron god of brotherhood men, setting high standards for loyal and righteous actions. My railway gang paid homage to him too, hoping that his courage and endurance would course through our veins. In secret, Grandmother prayed to him to extend her life, at least until my father returned. Always last to go to bed, she was the one who took a final look down the darkened lane, drew our front doors shut, and dropped the bar in place. She claimed she was checking for robbers, but we knew she was looking for Father, certain that he would accost her first of all in order to decide how to approach Grandfather.

  I lit incense and poured wine. I murmured a prayer and tried to recall One Leg and No Brain’s faces. They failed to emerge. I only saw a pant leg pinned up, the glint of a steel pin piercing dark cloth, the bib of the overall with a missing button.

  Should One Leg go home?

  I tossed the wooden charms to the ground. The two sides landing face-up advised yes. I threw them again. Same answer. No need to ask a third time. Fist should be happy.

  Should No Brain go home?

  This time, yes and then no. The third deciding toss was yes.

  Should Fist go home?

  Yes.

  I thought of my own question. Should I take the boy to China?

  It would be grand to have the Will of Heaven on my side, a shield to my back and a steady wind behind me. I raised the charms, but then clenched and stayed my hand.

  I was afraid His Holiness might order me to do something that was within my power.

  I prayed instead for big wins at tonight’s game tables.

  13

  FIRE CAN WARM YOU OR LEAVE YOU IN THE COLD (1885)

  Boss Joe climbed atop a wooden crate with a lamp to his face so that all in the hall could see. No small-town merchant would miss a chance where everyone had to look up to him. He loudly praised his esteemed forebears for packing their meagre goods and leaving central China 600 years ago, after barbarian hordes had crashed through the Great Wall and laid waste to the region. His ancestors walked for months and crossed high mountains to reach the southern frontier. There, dense jungles and swamps had to be tamed and shaped into working farms while hostile tribes armed with poisoned arrows surrounded them. He wondered with a chuckle if China men in Gold Mountain had any of the same gumption to claim new lands for their clans and families.

  Stupid ass. His ancestors had travelled with wives, children, and parents, all over many generations. They possessed better tools and weapons than local enemies. They carried useful goods that could be readily traded along the way. They could have stopped on any available land and built a flimsy, self-contained village. Here in Gold Mountain, redbeard invaders held China men and local Natives with the same brutal regard: runts from a diseased litter destined for death and disposal. Now Boss Joe sneered at them too.

  The brat drummed the table with chopsticks, causing men to frown. I stopped him. There was peace for a moment until he started kicking the table leg, which set the bowls and spoons rattling. Chopsticks landing on the dirty floor brought bad luck so the men at my table muttered among themselves, loud enough for me to hear.

  “No spanking, no growing.”

  “Fold the young tree, not the old.”

  “Kill a small fire before the mountain burns.”

  If these cockheads were like Father and Grandfather, then they were just crickets in the night hills, all noise and hazy air. They expected their women to feed the children, teach them manners, and smack into them an abiding fear of their elders. Never could these men persuade a wayward child to eat a cold rice breakfast before a long day’s journey.

  �
�Today, many strangers in town asked me how His Holiness was brought to this desolate place,” Boss Joe bragged. “So I want to tell everyone the story.”

  “You know us merchants,” he started, “we are as lazy as any worker.”

  He paused to let people laugh, but no one did. “Once the goods are received and unpacked, we sit around, swatting flies and awaiting clients. Rail hands come to my store to drink tea and pass the time. Every day, another one asked me for advice:

  “‘Boss, a worker in the tunnel got fragrant; shall I leave to be safe?’

  “‘Boss, the washman in town is quitting; should I buy his shop?’

  “‘Boss, there’s work at fish canneries; do I go?’

  “‘Boss, is it better to winter in China or in New Westminster?’

  “They asked me, they asked each other, they worried themselves silly. ‘Is it best to take half a pound or sixteen ounces?’ ‘Is it best to leave on the first of the month, or the fifteenth?’ That was when I went to China and brought over His Holiness. He made everyone’s life simpler.”

  Who in hell did Boss Joe think he was fooling? The little statue of His Holiness had cost next to nothing to bring over. Boss Joe spent a few measly coins in order to rake in the big money, that’s what he did. He knew his customers well. China men here were nervous; having seen ghosts, of course they feared the dark, so by all means they sought holy advice. Normally, clan elders mapped out every path and every direction for each clan member, but here we were far from the village.

  I made better use of my time by asking guests about the host, seeking ways to approach Boss Joe again for a loan.

  Did he have children?

  Did he trade at Cache Creek?

  Was he friendly with Native people?

  The guests were as lazy as rich men and didn’t care to talk to me. One man tapped his fingers on the table and muttered, “Start the meal, stinking bastard, start the meal. Night comes and so does trouble.” He looked around at us. “In America, redbeards attacked us again. Coal miners’ cabins got torched, but thirty men escaped.”

  “Good thing Boss Joe has guards outside.”

  The guests were divided half-and-half on whether to stay the night and gamble or to eat and run.

  I needed everyone to remain and play. “Much smoother to smile among friends,” I wheedled. “In harsh lands, men laugh whenever they can.”

  I asked who among the guests was an expert gambler. They snorted and refused to say. They had claimed this territory far ahead of me, an upstart newcomer whose cash should flow, by right, into their pockets. The less I knew, the better for them. But it ran both ways. The less they knew of me, the better for me. They didn’t know about my game-hall skills or that I was penniless and desperate.

  Seven, the crazed attacker of the afternoon, dropped into the seat by me. He grunted at the diners and, frowning, looked Peter up and down before asking about him.

  “What?” He scrunched his face at my reply. “What damn use is that?”

  “The boy will be raised by his mother.”

  “Nothing changes for him.” His left hand stayed inside a pocket to hide the missing fingers. “Those people have wretched lives.”

  “Trueborn mother is best.”

  “If her people suffer, then so will she. What about your boy then?”

  “You fought the redbeards,” I said. “We need more men like you.”

  “No one joined me out on the road,” he noted, “not even you.”

  My head tilted at the boy. “Who looks after him?”

  When the food arrived, the men complained loudly. The chef hired from New Westminster never reached Lytton due to the landslide blockage. Amateurs in the kitchen overcooked the soup, melting the strands of bird’s nest into mush. The rose-flower chicken was dry and stringy from being simmered at too high a flame. The eggs scrambled with tomatoes were soggy. Guests with feeble teeth spat out the too-tough beef brisket. Seven refused to eat and stalked off to squat by the teapots where he fished out a jug of liquor.

  Soon we swept food scraps to the ground and summoned the town’s stray dogs to feast. The gambling resumed: shouting and bluster filled the hall, as loud as that in Victoria. Men with no money unrolled blankets beside a darkened wall and pulled out tobacco pipes. I went from table to table to assess my chances while watching the sleeping boy from afar. Well-wishers besieged Boss Joe so I waited to broach the subject of the loan. When my low-risk bets at fan-tan failed several times, I regretted not pouring a larger quantity of wine for His Holiness. I hovered over the mah-jongg, looking for the careless players. The amateurs never bothered to track discarded tiles. I would let them settle into a rhythm of carefree gaming before joining.

  A glass bottle shattered, and then another. A rush of air whipped by.

  “Fire!”

  The floor at the side door was burning, fuelled by straw and clothes left there. Yellow and orange flames shot up. Guests raced toward the store, overturning benches and tables, causing oil lamps to crash and spread the burning. Money fell to the floor, but it was too dark to paw around, even for me. Men beat the stubborn fire with shirts and blankets. The scrolls burst into flames, but not the logs of the wall.

  I yelled for Peter, who was no longer lying on his blankets. Men at the door were twisted into a seething mess, unable to move. I peered through their legs but the smoke and flickering shadows hid everything. I kicked the blankets by the wall. No, the brat wasn’t playing games and hiding there. Maybe he was outside already.

  Flames at the entrance reached higher and higher, burning so fiercely that the rest of the hall fell dark. The boy stood in a trance, eyes and mouth wide open. Flashing light threw an eerie orange glow on his face; he looked otherworldly. He thrust his hands at the fire, as if needing warmth, as if drawn to the flames for some grand purpose. He was born under Water so Fire was the enemy that could evaporate him, reduce him to nothing. I seized him but he screamed, “No!” and broke away. He smacked into Seven, carrying one of the statues of the gods.

  I grabbed Peter and ran out the door.

  The massive fire lit the moonless night and unfurled sparks and embers that sailed north, away from town. I had never seen flames wide and tall as a village wall. Brick houses in China did not burn as fiercely as wood, and this timber had baked through months of hot sun and dry winds.

  Boss Joe ran by, dragging a heavy sack and shouting orders. Clerks stumbled through the smoke-filled store to heave goods to the front, where lines of men passed them on to safety. Bags of rice swung through, followed by bins of beans, jugs of wine, and pails of dishes.

  I prayed for safety for Boss Joe’s gold and money. Otherwise he would be in no position to lend me anything. The building next door was alit; its windows swallowed a sharp crack and then the glass shattered.

  The boy pulled me back toward the fire. I stopped, lifting him to my shoulders where he could watch. The rest of Chinatown’s people had filled the road, fleeing their nearby homes for safety outdoors. The enemy was all around, but why hide inside if the walls were about to burn? I groaned aloud. We were mud Buddhas crossing water: ones who couldn’t even protect ourselves.

  Firecrackers banged in a rat-tat-tat of a rooftop hailstorm, followed by a run of loud explosions. Tins of kerosene must have ignited. The last clerk ran out just as one wall collapsed. The burning logs slumped to the ground and rolled away before the adjacent walls tilted. We backed away from the intense heat, coughing, hands over our noses and mouths. The finer the kindling, the bigger the fire. If Boss Joe rebuilt this Chinatown, maybe he should try smaller buildings.

  Rumours spread through the crowd like ticks in a ragged bedroll. Redbeards had upended the horse troughs and barrels to deprive us of water. They subdued the guards and trussed their hands and feet. Flaming bottles of kerosene had been tossed into the temple and onto the roof. The store’s front entrance burst into flames, but our men beat out the fire. Otherwise the hall would have become an oven and roasted everyone. The riv
er was too far and the slope to the water too steep for any bucket brigade to be formed. Most astonishing, the holy statues were carried out without a single smudge. People praised the gods for a wondrous rescue.

  “Fire can’t be wrapped in paper,” they said. “Justice prevails.”

  Someone pointed out that no redbeard spectators had gathered. In Victoria, water wagons and pumper cars arrived promptly at blazing buildings, bells clanging to summon policemen, drunks, and eager children from nearby homes. This quiet was eerie. Were the townspeople cowering in fear that we China men planned to take revenge? Or were they waiting with guns and pitchforks?

  I resolved at that moment to take the boy to China. At the fire, he was ready to leap into the flames. His future had exploded into danger and ruin. My boy, any boy, deserved better.

  Seven was trying to rally men to take the fire to Red Tie.

  “His thugs await,” Boss Joe protested. “You fall into their trap!”

  “We must show them that we’re not scared.”

  Angry voices backed him up.

  “They have guns,” said Boss Joe.

  “But they can’t shoot in the dark. Strike iron while the stove is red!”

  I held Peter tightly, afraid that Seven might grab him to pull me along. That fool needed to calm down. Our bandit gang had often rushed out of the camp livid and eager for battle. We forgot about all-night sentries or new guns the enemy had acquired. We failed to confirm the latest news received, or to recall how recent rains had turned paths into mud. Then, as we retreated in shame and confusion, our leaders shouted, “Death takes us home!”

  This fire might have made a grand story to tell to my villagers: we burned the houses of the redbeards after they attacked our temple. We fought to the death and defended the honour of our nation. But Boss Joe was no flag-waving general, while Seven was crazy-crazy. We were China men in a lawless redbeard town. The fire was a colossal insult but no one had died. Should we consider ourselves lucky, grab our belongings, and run? We had seen, after all, plenty of deaths on the iron road, and now that it was finished, even the merchants were in retreat. Boss Joe had lost goods in the fire, yet he loudly urged restraint. Most of us had lost little or nothing; why would we invoke new dangers? We didn’t even know each other’s names.