Gold Mountain Blues (43 page)

Those memories trickled gently into the bloodstreams of her grandchildren too. She lived to a great age, and even witnessed the birth of a great-grandchild. Long before that, though, she went through the money left her by her husband, and spent the rest of her life struggling, like the rest of her tribe. Still, she wore a satisfied smile, knowing that she had fulfilled her mission: her children's children and their children would keep the memories of that man alive a hundred years.

The sun was very bright and Sundance shaded her eyes with her hand. She could see far into the distance to where the redwood trees looked no bigger than a row of nuts. There, around the riverbend at the end of the village, was where her father would emerge. She heard the sharp cry of a bird in the pine tree by her door. Though it was hidden in the gloom of the branches, Sundance knew it was a blue jay. Her father said that her hearing was sharper than an elk's.

“What are you trying to tell me? Is my dad coming?” Sundance asked, looking upward.

The bird was silent. But the branches rustled a little. Sundance could not help chuckling. Holding her hair to one side, she lay down and pinned her ear to the ground to listen. When the canoe rounded the bend, she would be able to hear the ripple of the water on the paddle. There were members of the tribe who had bought something called a motor which
they put in the belly of the boat and Sundance had heard that this made the canoe grow legs and walk in the water, but her father was unimpressed. The paddle was the spirit of the canoe; without its spirit, what could the boat do?

Sundance lay listening quietly and gradually a thread of sound came to her ears, a humming noise. She knew it was the Great Earth sighing. The Earth had been asleep for too long and needed to turn over. When that happened, the grass would green, the flowers would open, the brown bear and the elk would come out of the forests and the blue jay would no longer need to skulk amid the dark branches.

But today she was not listening for the Earth's sounds.

She was about to stand up again, disappointed, when her ear caught another tiny sound, a sort of hushing noise, which brought with it a hint of warmth as it brushed her eardrum.

The sound of her father's paddle in the water.

Sundance leapt to her feet in excitement, hitched up her skirts and ran towards the riverbend. Once she reached him, they would race each other home, he in the canoe, she along the riverbank.

The blue jay suddenly flew up out of the pine tree and circled low around her head. Sundance flicked one end of her belt at the bird and retreated a little, then came back to follow close behind. Sundance's heart gave a thud. Her father had said that the day her grandmother died, a blue jay kept circling round his head.

Sundance picked up a stone and tossed it at the jay, hitting her wing. She gave a loud squawk and flew away lopsidedly. Sundance began to run fast, but the wind was a nuisance, entangling her legs in her skirt and blowing her hair in her eyes. But she knew every tree root and every stone along the way. Even without eyes, Sundance could have found the exact place where her father would round the bend in the river.

Sundance stopped and picked a withered reed to tie back her hair. In the distance, she saw the hazy shape of her father's canoe, floating slowly towards her like a mallard duck. She cupped her hands over her mouth and shouted:

“Dad!”

The redwoods caught the sound, and sent it back in mighty echoes all around her.

She could see the canoe more clearly now. It seemed heavier than usual; the neck of the carved mallard's head sunk low in the water, so that only the bright red beak was visible.

Sundance jumped onto a rock, and could see at a glance that there were a number of large sacks in the canoe—goods which her dad had bartered for in the city. Rice, charcoal, perhaps green vegetables, even candy. There might even be two small black hats with upturned brims.

Sundance's gaze was caught by something else in the boat, and her brow furrowed in astonishment.

Among the sacks, dressed in a strange blue cotton gown, sprawled a body.

He was hot, so hot. From the soles of his feet to the hair on his head, his entire body was stuck to a burning hot sheet of iron and the fat was melting off him, just like the lard oozed from the pig when his mother cooked it at New Year.

Water, water…

Kam Shan opened his eyes, to see a red light in front of him—a firepit. Beside it floated something large and round. Gradually his eyes focused and he saw it was the face of a girl. High cheekbones, deep-set eye sockets, thick lips. A stranger. He could not think of anyone he knew who looked like that. The thought made his head ache. He groaned with a voice as reedy as the whine of a mosquito: “Porridge … is there any porridge?”

The girl stared at him uncomprehendingly. Kam Shan saw she was wearing a deerskin cloak, fringed at the neck and hem. A Redskin. She was a Redskin, though she looked a little like a Chinese. No wonder she could not understand what he said.

Oh God, he had fallen into the hands of Redskins!

He had heard stories of Redskins—how they scalped people, dug out their hearts, made necklaces of human teeth. His own experience of them in the market did not support these claims, but the beads of sweat on him instantly chilled and his hair stood on end.

He shut his eyes again. He did not want to die at the hands of these Redskins. It had never occurred to him when he and Ah-Lam's wife boarded the steamship last year that they might both wind up dead in Gold Mountain. His dad had not scraped together all that money for the head tax for him to die within the year.

There was more noise in the room now, a scuffling sound which might be leather boots on the mud floor, or a knife being pulled from its sheath. There were voices too, male and female. He could not understand a word. Kam Shan knew they were gathering around him because he could feel heavy breathing on his face.

Oh help me, my Emperor … Kwan Kung … Tam Gung … merciful Kuan Yam … Jesus … Saint Paul … Saint Peter. Kam Shan summoned up all the deities he could think of. If you get me out of this, I swear I'll make you a gold statue, I swear I won't make Dad angry any more, I'll write to Mum every month, I won't steal Dad's money ever again, I swear.…

But it was no use. He felt the knife blade on his forehead. Strangely, it did not hurt. It felt rough and scratchy, a bit like sandpaper on his skin.

If you're going to kill me then do it with one slash, I can't stand pain, I really can't stand pain.…

His prayer was silent but his eyelids fluttered like moths' wings.

“You've been asleep for a day. It's time to wake up,” said a woman's voice.

Her English was broken, but he could still understand.

His eyes sprang open. The thing that lay on his forehead was not a knife blade but a cracked and calloused hand, a woman's hand. Her face was weathered a coppery colour, and the grime that marked its creases looked like verdigris. Next to her stood a man and the round-faced girl.

“Are you awake? I'll bring you some water,” said the girl, not bothering to hide her excitement. When she spoke, he could see two rows of uneven, yellowed teeth, which Kam Shan somehow found calming.

She brought water and Kam Shan gulped it all down. It left a burnt, smoky taste in his mouth. He let her take the bowl back: “Is there any more?” The girl smiled. “You mustn't drink too much at once, you've been dry for days. Have something to eat, then drink some more.” The girl spoke much better English than her mother, and Kam Shan had no difficulty
understanding. His belly rumbled thunderously. He was so hungry he was beyond the niceties of politeness. “Is there any porridge?” was what he wanted to say, but he did not know the word in English. What he finally said was: “Can I have rice, rice with water?”

The girl looked blank but her mother gave a broad smile. “He wants porridge,” she said, using the Chinese word. “Chinese people like eating porridge with black eggs in it.” It's pickled eggs, not black eggs, thought Kam Shan. He looked dully at her, his lips trembling, and said: “Anything'll do.” She bent down and picked up a pair of tongs, took something from the stones in the firepit and put it in his water bowl. “It's cooked,” she said. “Eat it up.”

Kam Shan looked at the black thing in his bowl. It smelled burnt, like roast meat. There was no salt or oil on it but he did not care. Down it went. It was fish, he realized, and it made only the smallest dent in his hunger. He remembered how his mother and grandmother impressed on him that he must never, ever, ask for second helpings when he was a guest in someone's house, but today he did not care.

He swallowed hard a few times, enough to wet his throat and form the words “a bit more” in a parched voice. But before he could get them out, the woman had gone to the fire and came back with another piece of fish, bigger than the first, which she put into his bowl. Kam Shan ate it more slowly. There were no chopsticks so he used his fingers. His fingers felt warm, and he was aware of the girl's eyes on them. Her gaze seemed to coat them in a layer of oil. Now that he was no longer so hungry, he began to feel clumsy and flustered.

He finished the fish, bones and all. He put down the bowl and burped loudly, filling the air around him with a strong fishy smell.

He looked around him at the Redskins' home. It was long and narrow, built of rough timber with a mud floor. There was a large firepit in the middle of the floor, and beds—wooden planks covered with rush matting— at each end. He was lying on a wooden plank himself, near the door. By the firepit, the head of a huge elk hung from a wall. Branches stood propped against each other in front of the fire, and his gown hung drying on them. It was a dusty grey, which meant it was nearly dry. Under the gown he could see one blue trouser leg.
His
trouser leg.

What was he wearing? Who had taken his trousers off him? Was it the woman? Or the girl?

The thought made Kam Shan flush so hotly he could have boiled a river of water. He heard giggling. He saw several pairs of eyes peering out at him from one corner, shining a wolfish green in the lamplight. When his eyes got used to the gloom, he saw three small children sitting on a wooden bed at the end of the room, barefoot and sharing a cover between them.

“Sundance!” commanded the older woman, and the girl ran over and started to dress the children.

Sundance. The Redskin girl's name was Sundance. Pretty name, Kam Shan thought to himself.

“Where do you live? How did you end up in the river?” The man had been silent, but now he suddenly broke in. He squatted on the ground, took a burning stick from the hearth and lit a cigarette. It must be some sort of local tobacco, thought Kam Shan. The cigarette was as thick as the Redskin's thumb and the tobacco smoke burned his throat. Kam Shan remembered the man pulling him into his canoe and asking the same question.

“Not far from Vancouver,” Kam Shan answered vaguely.

He did not know how to answer the second question; his English was just not up to telling such a long and complicated story. About a pigtail.

But the man was not going to let him off the hook. “And how did you end up in the river?” he persisted. “You floated a long way down.”

Kam Shan's lack of English effectively smothered his flustered hesitation. There was a long silence. Finally Kam Shan said: “Fight … someone pushed me … into river.”

“Why?” The man looked interested.

“Woman,” Kam Shan muttered.

He startled himself with this lie. As far as women were concerned, he was a blank sheet of paper. He glanced towards the shadows but could not see Sundance's face, only her hands, busy shaking out the quilt her young siblings had been wrapped in.

The man burst out laughing and clapped Kam Shan on the shoulder. “Not much of a swimmer, are you?” he said. “I thought it was a dead seal
draped over that bit of wood. Good thing your girl didn't see you looking so hangdog!”

The man threw the remains of his cigarette into the fire and flicked ash from his finger. “Sundance can find him an animal-hide coat to wear and make sure he's had enough to eat. In a couple of days, when I go back to town, I'll take him along with me and give him back to his girlfriend.”

Kam Shan was horrified.

It was only many years later, when he thought back to his time with the Redskin tribe, that he realized how the casual telling of one little lie had required a whole string of lies to cover it up. It was like when his mother wrote with her brush on rice paper and accidentally spattered it with ink. To erase that almost invisible blob, you had to dilute it with so much water that it eventually covered a huge area.

At the time, Kam Shan was only sixteen, too young to think that far ahead. He was cornered and his only thought was to fight his way out as quickly as he could.

And since he could not go back on the first lie, he had to go along with it.

No way could he go home to his father, at least not now. How could he explain his bad luck? What would he say? That dark abyss, which made father and son strangers to each other, remained between them. The only thing that could help him across this abyss was a pigtail. He could only go home when that pigtail grew back.

“Thing is … I really don't want … see that girl again,” Kam Shan said now.

“Thing is … I got no home, I just been wandering … place to place.”

The woman was feeding the fire. She brought over a pile of branches that crackled and burned fiercely in the flames, shooting sparks in all directions. The soot brought tears to her eyes, and she wiped them on the front of her jacket. “My mum told me the Chinese who built the railroad were like you. They came from so far away, but wherever the railroad ended up, they made that their home,” she said.

“Can I live with you for a bit? I can, I can work.…” said Kam Shan, not looking at the man. He was addressing the woman as he spoke. She had a soft heart; he could see that in her eyes.