The Keys of the Kingdom

by A. J. Cronin

  Here, as Father Chisholm turned another page, his concentration was disturbed by the sound of ponies stamping in the compound. He hesitated, listening, half unwilling to relinquish his mood of precious reverie. But the sound increased, mingled with brisk voices. His lips drew together in acceptance. He turned to the last entry in the journal and, taking his pen, added a paragraph.

  ‘April 30th, 1936. I am on the point of leaving for the Liu settlement with Father Chou and the Fiskes. Yesterday Father Chou came in, anxious for my advice about a young herdsman he had isolated at the settlement, fearing he might have the smallpox. I decided to go back with him myself – with our good ponies and the new trail, it is only two days’ journey. Then I amplified the idea. Since I have repeatedly promised to show Dr and Mrs Fiske our model village, I decided we might all four take the trip. It will be my last opportunity to fulfil my long-outstanding pledge to the doctor and his wife. They are returning home to America at the end of this month. I hear them calling now. They are looking forward to the excursion … I’ll tackle Fiske en route on his confounded impudence … Holy Roller, indeed! …’

  XII

  The sun was already dropping towards the bare rim of the hills which enclosed the narrow valley. Riding ahead of the returning party, occupied by thoughts of Liu, where they had left Father Chou with medicine for the sick herdsman, Father Chisholm had resigned himself to another night encampment before reaching the mission when, at a bend of the road, he met three men in dirty cotton uniforms slouching head-down with rifles on their hips.

  It was a familiar sight: the province was swarming with irregulars, disbanded soldiers with smuggled weapons who had formed themselves into roving gangs. He passed them with a muttered, ‘peace be with you,’ and slowed down till the others of the party made up to him. But as he turned he was surprised to see terror on the faces of the two porters from the Methodist mission and a sudden anxiety in his own servant’s eyes.

  ‘These look like followers of Wai.’ Joshua made a gesture towards the road ahead. ‘And there are others.’

  The priest swung round stiffly. About twenty of the grey-green figures were approaching down the path kicking up a cloud of slow white dust. On the shadowed hill, straggling in a winding line, were at least another score. He exchanged a glance with Fiske.

  ‘Let’s push on.’

  The two parties met a moment later. Father Chisholm, smiling, with his usual greeting, kept his beast moving steadily down the middle of the path. The soldiers, gaping stupidly, gave way automatically. The only mounted man, a youngster with a broken peaked cap and some air of authority, enhanced by a corporal’s stripe misplaced upon his cuff, halted his shaggy pony indecisively.

  ‘Who are you? And whither are you going?’

  ‘We are missionaries, returning to Pai-tan.’ Father Chisholm gave the answer calmly across his shoulder, still leading the others forward. They were now almost through the dirty, puzzled, staring mob: Mrs Fiske and the doctor behind him, followed by Joshua and the two bearers.

  The corporal was uncertain but partly satisfied. The encounter was robbed of danger, reduced to commonplace, when suddenly the elder of the two porters lost his head. Prodded by a rifle butt in his passage between the men, he dropped his bundle with a screech of panic and bolted for the cover of the brushwood on the hill.

  Father Chisholm suppressed a bitter exclamation. In the gathering twilight, there was a second’s dubious immobility. Then a shot rang out, another, and another. The echoes went volleying down the hills. As the blue figure of the bearer, bent double, vanished into the bushes, a loud defrauded, outcry broke amongst the soldiers. No longer dumbly wondering, they crowded around the missionaries, in furious chattering resentment.

  ‘You must come with us.’ As Father Chisholm had foreseen, the corporal’s reaction was immediate.

  ‘We are only missionaries,’ Dr Fiske protested heatedly. ‘ We have no possessions. We are honest people.’

  ‘Honest people do not run away. You must come to our leader, Wai.’

  ‘I assure you –’

  ‘Wilbur!’ Mrs Fiske interposed quietly. ‘ You’ll only make it worse. Save your breath.’

  Bundled about, surrounded by the soldiers, they were roughly pushed along the path which they had recently traversed. About five li back, the young officer turned west into a dry watercourse which took a tortuous and stony course into the hills. At the head of the gully the company halted.

  Here perhaps a hundred ill-conditioned soldiers were scattered about in postures of ease – smoking, chewing betel nut, scraping lice from their armpits and caked mud from between their bare toes. On a flat stone, cross-legged, eating his evening meal before a small dung fire, with his back against the wall of the ravine, was Wai-Chu.

  Wai was now about fifty-five, gross but full-bellied, with a greater and more evil immobility. His ghee-oiled hair, worn long and parted in the middle, fell over a forehead so drawn down by a perpetual frown as to narrow the oblique eyes to slits. Three years before, a bullet had sheared away his front teeth and upper lip. The scar was horrible. Despite it, Francis plainly recognised the horseman who had spat into his face at the mission gate that night of the retreat. Hitherto he had sustained their detention with composure. But now, under that hidden, subhuman gaze, charged beneath its blankness with an answering recognition, the priest was conscious of a sharp constriction of his heart.

  While the corporal volubly related the circumstances of the capture, Wai continued unfathomably to eat, the twin sticks sending a stream of liquid rice and pork lumps into his gullet from the bowl pressed beneath his chin. Suddenly two soldiers broke up the ravine at the double, dragging the fugitive bearer between them. With a final heave they threw him into the circle of fire-glow. The unhappy man fell on his knees close to Wai, his arms skewered behind him, panting and gibbering, in an ecstasy of fear.

  Wai continued to eat. Then, casually, he pulled his revolver from his belt and fired it. Caught in the act of supplication, the porter fell forward, his body still jerking against the ground. A creamy pinkish pulp oozed from his blasted skull. Before the stunning reverberations of the report had died Wai had resumed his meal.

  Mrs Fiske had screamed faintly. But beyond a momentary lifting of their heads, the resting soldiers took no notice of the incident. The two who had brought in the bearer now pulled his corpse away and systematically dispossessed it of boots, clothing, and a string of copper cash. Numb and sick, the priest muttered to Dr Fiske, who stood, very pale, beside him.

  ‘Keep calm … show nothing … or it is hopeless for all of us.’

  They waited. The cold and senseless murder had charged the air with horror. At a sign from Wai the second bearer was driven forward and flung upon his knees. The priest felt his stomach turn with a dreadful premonition. But Wai merely said, addressing them all, impersonally:

  ‘This man, your servant, will leave immediately for Pai-tan and inform your friends that you are temporarily in my care. For such hospitality a voluntary gift is customary. At noon on the day following tomorrow two of my men will await him, half a li outside the Manchu Gate. He will advance, quite alone.’ Wai paused blankly. ‘It is to be hoped he will bring the voluntary gift.’

  ‘There is little profit in making us your guests.’ Dr Fiske spoke with a throb of indignation. ‘I have already indicated that we are without worldly goods.’

  ‘For each person five thousand dollars is requested. No more.’

  Fiske breathed more easily. The sum, though large, was not impossible to a mission as wealthy as his own.

  ‘Then permit my wife to return with the messenger. She will ensure that the money is paid.’

  Wai gave no sign of having heard. For one apprehensive moment the priest thought his overwrought companion was about to make a scene. But Fiske stumbled back to his wife’s side. The messenger was dispatched, sent bounding down the ravine with a last forceful injunction from the corporal. Wai then rose and, while his men made prep
arations for departure, walked forward to his tethered pony, so casually that the dead man’s bare upturned feet, protruding from an arbutus bush, struck the eye like a hallucination.

  The missionaries’ ponies were now brought up, the four prisoners forced to mount, then roped together by long hemp cords. The cavalcade moved off into the gathering night.

  Conversation was impossible at this bumping gallop. Father Chisholm was left to the mercy of his thoughts, which centred on the man now holding them for ransom.

  Lately Wai’s waning power had driven him to many excesses. From a traditional war lord, dominating the Chek-kow district of the province with his army of three thousand men, bought off by the various townships, levying taxes and imposts, living in feudal luxury in his walled fortress at Tou-en-lai, he had slowly fallen to ruinous days. At the height of his notoriety he had paid fifty thousand taels for a concubine from Peking. Now he lived from hand to mouth by petty forays. Beaten decisively in two pitched battles with neighbouring mercenaries, he had thrown in his lot first with the Min-tuan, then, in a fit of malice, with the opposing faction, the Yu-chi-tui. The truth was that neither desired his doubtful aid. Degenerate, vicious, he fought solely for his own hand. His men were steadily deserting. As the scale of his operations dwindled his ferocity intensified. When he reached the humiliation of a bare two hundred followers, his round of pillage and burnings stood as a dreadful theme of terror. A fallen Lucifer, his hatreds fed on the glories he had lost, he was at enmity with mankind.

  The night was interminable. They crossed a low range of hills, forded two rivulets, spattered for an hour through low-lying swamplands. Beyond that, and his conjecture from the pole star that they were travelling due west, Father Chisholm had no knowledge of the terrain they traversed. At his age, used to the quiet amble of his beast, the rapid jolting shook his bones until they rattled. But he reflected, with commiseration, that the Fiskes, too, were enduring the bone-shaking, for the good God’s sake. And Joshua, poor lad though supple enough, was so young he must be sadly frightened. The priest told himself that on the return to the mission he would assuredly give the boy the roan pony he had coveted, silently, these past six months. Closing his eyes, he said a short prayer for the safety of their little party.

  Dawn found them in a wilderness of rock and windblown sand, quite uninhabited, with no vegetation but scattered clumps of yellowish tuft grass. But within an hour, the sound of rushing water reached them and there, behind an escarpment, was the ruined citadel of Tou-en-lai, a huddle of ancient mud-brick houses on the cliff slope, surrounded by a crenellated wall, scarred and scorched by many sieges, the old glazed pillars of a Buddhist temple standing roofless, by the riverside.

  Within the walls, the party dismounted, and Wai, without a word, entered his house, the only habitable dwelling. The morning air was raw. As the missionaries stood shivering on the hard mud courtyard, still roped together, a number of women and older men came crowding from the little caves which honeycombed the cliff and joined the soldiers in a chattering inspection of the captives.

  ‘We should be grateful for food and rest.’ Father Chisholm addressed the company at large.

  ‘Food and rest.’ The words were repeated, passed from mouth to mouth, amongst the onlookers, as an amusing curiosity.

  The priest proceeded patiently. ‘You observe how weary is the missionary woman.’ Mrs Fiske was, indeed, half-fainting, on her feet. ‘Perhaps some well-disposed person would offer her hot tea.’

  ‘Tea … hot tea,’ echoed the mob, crowding closer.

  They were now within touching distance of the missionaries and suddenly, with a simian acquisitiveness, an old man in the front rank snatched at the doctor’s watch-chain. It was the signal for a general spoliation – money, breviary, Bible, wedding ring, the priest’s old silver pencil – in three minutes the little group stood divested of every thing except their boots and clothing.

  As the scramble ended, a woman’s eye was caught by the dull sparkle of a jet buckle on the band of Mrs Fiske’s hat. Immediately, she clutched at it. Aware, desperately, of her awful hazard, Mrs Fiske struggled, with a shrill defensive cry. But in vain. Buckle, hat and wig came off together in her assailant’s tenacious grasp. In a flash her bald head gleamed, like a bladder of lard, with grotesque and terrible nakedness, in the remorseless air.

  There was a hush. Then a babble of derision broke, a paroxysm of shrieking mockery. Mrs Fiske covered her face with her hands and burst into scalding tears. The doctor attempting tremulously to cover his wife’s scalp with his handkerchief, saw the coloured silk snatched away. Poor woman, Father Chisholm thought, compassionately averting his eyes.

  The sudden arrival of the corporal ended the hilarity as quickly as it had begun. The crowd scattered as the missionaries were led into one of the caves, which possessed the distinction of a hatch. This heavy ribbed door was slammed and fastened. They were left alone.

  ‘Well,’ said Father Chisholm after a pause, ‘at least we have this to ourselves.’

  There was a longer silence. The little doctor, seated on the earth floor with his arm about his weeping wife, said dully: ‘It was scarlet fever. She caught it the first year we were in China. She was so sensitive about it. We took such pains never to let a soul know.’

  ‘And no one will know,’ the priest lied swiftly. ‘Joshua and I are silent as the grave. When we return to Pai-tan the – the damage can be repaired.’

  ‘You hear that, Agnes, dear? Pray stop crying, my dearest love.’

  A slackening, then cessation of the muffled sobs. Mrs Fiske slowly raised her tear-stained eyes, red-rimmed in that ostrich orb.

  ‘You are very kind,’ she choked.

  ‘Meanwhile, they seem to have left me with this. If it can be of any service.’ Father Chisholm produced a large maroon bandana from his inner pocket.

  She took it humbly, gratefully; tied it, like a mob-cap, with a butterfly knot behind her ear.

  ‘There now, my dear.’ Fiske patted her on the back. ‘Why, you look quite captivating again.’

  ‘Do I, dear?’ She smiled wanly, coquettishly. Her spirits lifted. ‘Now let’s see what we can do to put this wretched yao-fang in order.’

  There was little they could do; the cave, no more than nine feet deep, held nothing but some broken crockery and its own dank gloom. The only light and air came from chinks in the barricaded entry. It was cheerless as a tomb. But they were worn out. They stretched themselves on the floor. They slept.

  It was afternoon when they were wakened by the creak of the opening hatch. A shaft of fantastic sunshine penetrated the yao-fang, then a middle aged woman entered with a pitcher of hot water and two loaves of black bread. She stood watching as Father Chisholm handed one loaf to Dr Fiske, then silently broke the other between Joshua and himself. Something in her attitude, in her dark and rather sullen face, caused the priest to gaze at her attentively.

  ‘Why!’ He gave a start of recognition. ‘You are Anna!’ She did not answer. After sustaining his gaze, boldly, she turned and went out.

  ‘Do you know that woman?’ Fiske asked quickly.

  ‘I am not sure. But yes, I am sure. She was a girl at the mission who … who ran away.’

  ‘Not a great tribute to your teaching.’ For the first time Fiske spoke acidly.

  ‘We shall see.’

  That night they all slept badly. The discomforts of their confinement grew hourly. They took turns lying next to the hatch, for the privilege of breathing in the damp moist air. The little doctor kept groaning: ‘That awful bread! Dear heaven, it’s tied my duodenum in a knot.’

  At noon, the next day, Anna came again with more hot water and a bowl of millet. Father Chisholm knew better than to address her by name.

  ‘How long are we to be kept here?’

  At first it seemed as though she would make no reply, then she said indifferently:

  ‘The two men have departed for Pai-tan. When they return you will be free.’

  Dr F
iske interposed restively; ‘Cannot you procure better food for us and blankets? We will pay.’

  She shook her head, scared off. But when she had retreated and let down the hatch she said, through the bars: ‘Pay me if you wish. It is not long to wait. It is nothing.’

  ‘Nothing.’ Fiske groaned again when she had gone. ‘I wish she had my insides.’

  ‘Don’t give way, Wilbur.’ From the darkness beyond Mrs Fiske exhorted him. ‘Remember, we’ve been through this before.’

  ‘We were young, then. Not old crocks on the verge of going home. And this Wai … he’s got his knife in us missionaries especially … for changing his good old order when crime paid.’

  She persisted: ‘ We must all keep cheerful. Look, we’ve got to distract ourselves. Not talk – or you two will start quarrelling about religion. A game. The silliest we can think of! We’ll play ‘animal, vegetable or mineral.’ Joshua, are you awake? Good. Now listen and I’ll explain how it goes.’

  They played the guessing game with heroic vigour. Joshua showed surprising aptitude. Then Mrs Fiske’s bright laugh cracked suddenly. They all fell very quiet. A dragging apathy succeeded; snatches of fitful sleep; uneasy, restless movements.

  ‘Dear God, they must surely be back by now.’ All next day that phrase fell incessantly from Fiske’s lips. His face and hands were hot to touch. Lack of sleep and air had made him feverish. But it was evening before a loud shouting and the barking of dogs gave indication of a late arrival. The silence which followed was oppressive.

  At last, footsteps approached and the hatch was flung open. On being commanded, they scrambled out on their hands and knees. The freshness of the night air, the sense of space and freedom, induced a delirium, almost, of relief.

  ‘Thank heaven!’ Fiske cried. ‘We’re all right now.’

  An escort of soldiers took them to Wai-Chu.

  He was seated, in his dwelling, on a coir mat, a lamp and a long pipe beside him, the loftly dilapidated room impregnated with the faintly bitter reek of poppy. Beside him was a soldier with a soiled blood-stained rag tied round his forearm. Five others of his troop, including the corporal, stood by the walls with rattans in their hands.