Outrun the Moon

by Stacey Lee

  The Boston girls observe me with suspicion marking their teapot faces, their tiny mouths pursed small as embroidery knots. Georgina regards me with her typical unsmiling, no-nonsense demeanor.

  “As Mr. Waterstone loved to remind us, a St. Clare’s girl comports herself with unselfish regard for the welfare of others. This holds true even when we are using the rules of comportment to wipe our shady sides.” That gets a grin out of Georgina. “So my tentmates and I have decided to make a feast for forty-four guests tonight, free of charge, good while supplies last.”

  My gaze travels to Elodie, who has stopped writing. Her narrowed eyes meet mine, then she puts her nose back into her journal.

  “How are you going to get enough food for everyone?” asks one of the Boston sisters. She leans her face against her fist, pushing creases into her frail cheeks.

  Headmistress Crouch’s cane pokes through her canvas cocoon, followed by the rest of her. Her long sleep doesn’t seem to have done much for her humor. Her face is still overly bright, her lips bent into a tight frown.

  I clear my throat, trying to remember what I was talking about. “We are still working out the particulars. We will ‘borrow’ if we have to.”

  Georgina pulls at her rope-like braid. “You mean loot? Mayor Schmitz ordered looters to be shot on sight.”

  A few girls gasp, but I continue before any chatter starts. “It’s only a rumor. And we don’t expect any of you to help us, but we do invite you all to partake.” I smile brightly. “It will be a night to remember.”

  Georgina raises her hand. “I will help. Just tell me what needs to be done.”

  “Thank you. The twig forks have been helpful, but we could use real cups and forks. Maybe even some dishes.”

  Another Boston sister raises her hand. “We only have four pots, and some must be reserved for water,” she says primly. “I don’t see how this is possible.”

  Francesca looks up from where she is stirring milk into the porridge. “One time at the restaurant, our stove broke, but we continued serving dinner. We did cold cuts and cheese and olive plates, and it was one of our best nights. There’s always a way.”

  “What do you think will happen if one of you does get caught?” says a gravelly voice from the back. Headmistress Crouch peers at me through the hoods of her eyes. Now everyone is looking at me with the same dubious expression.

  The moment becomes two, then three. I don’t have an answer for her. All I know is that it would be a very sad world if it was every man for himself. We are our brother’s keeper under Christian rules, and Buddhist, and probably Hindu and Zulu, too. I skirt around her question. “When a law isn’t just, I believe it’s okay to disobey it. In fact, I believe we are morally obligated to disobey it.”

  Headmistress Crouch stamps her cane. “We all know your penchant for breaking the rules. But laws exist for a reason. The army will arrive soon, and when they do, they will feed us. People should not be allowed to turn a profit on a tragedy.”

  Her words hammer thin my patience. “We would not be doing this for profit.”

  She approaches me with labored footsteps. “You are risking the lives of these girls to prove a point!”

  My breath spills out of me. “What point?”

  “You want to force the doors of self-respecting institutions like St. Clare’s open for all the heathens and Mongols, and maybe the monkeys, lions, and bears, too!” She stamps her cane again hard, as if trying to spear a worm.

  “I don’t, I—”

  “You have already looted, Miss Wong, stealing from this tragedy for your own personal gain.” The woman’s eyes are bulging, and her face glistens with sweat.

  “Headmistress Crouch!” Francesca says sharply.

  The woman stops suddenly, blinking hard like the sunlight is too bright. Her rib cage heaves in quick succession, and she clutches her chest. Like a felled tree, her cane lands with a thud, and a moment later, the head peacock of St. Clare’s crashes to the ground after it.

  29

  GIRLS SHRIEK AND FORM A RING AROUND the headmistress.

  “She needs a doctor!”

  “Give her space!”

  “Get off me; it’s just a dizzy spell,” pants Headmistress Crouch, who is amazingly, but not surprisingly, still conscious. No doubt when she’s outfitted in her wooden coat, she’ll be one of those corpses whose eyes won’t close, forever glaring.

  Georgina has lifted the woman’s head to her sturdy knees, and Minnie Mae is fanning her. Harry has fetched a cone of water, and Katie prepares a compress to put on the woman’s head. The Boston sisters have scattered in different directions, crying for a doctor, their kittens piled by the fire.

  I stare down at the headmistress’s heaving form, my anger still making my mouth pucker and my face burn. Part of me wants to see her suffer for all the horrible things she’s said. But that would just lead to guilt later.

  I jump off the crate and run toward Ah-Suk’s camp. Sure, he’s not the type of physician Headmistress Crouch will be used to—or even approve of—but for a good appetite, there is no hard bread.

  He is standing by the lake, twisting his torso back and forth. With his swinging arms, he pounds his front and back, the knocking-on-the-door exercise that stimulates energy flow.

  “Ah-Suk! Our teacher is having some sort of fit! She collapsed, and her face is flushed, and she’s breathing hard,” I ramble excitedly in my native tongue.

  We hurry back to my camp. Girls part when they see us, their eyes wide with surprise.

  “This is Dr. Gunn. He doesn’t speak English, so I will translate.”

  Ah-Suk scoops up Headmistress Crouch’s limp wrist with his bony fingers, striped blue with his thick veins. She recoils into Georgina, her hand twitching in an effort to pull away, but she’s too tired to manage it. Expertly, Ah-Suk takes her pulse with his three fingers, then switches sides and measures her other wrist. He makes a groaning noise that means he’s thinking. “Forceful and taut. Depth is too strong.”

  I don’t bother to translate yet, as then I would have to explain his pulse reading, which is as complicated as fortune-telling. Plus, the less foreign he sounds, the less squabbling she will do.

  In Cantonese, he says, “Stick out your tongue.” I translate.

  Headmistress Crouch turns her head away. “What witchcraft have you brought here? Take him away from me. And get this furball off me!” One of the kittens has stumbled over and is attempting to scale her boot. A Boston sister picks off the animal and returns her to the others.

  Ah-Suk draws up a thin eyebrow, waiting for my translation.

  “Er, she said that she is shy about sticking out her tongue,” I lie.

  “Why?” He snaps. The man can be as testy as Headmistress Crouch. “Is she shy about opening her mouth when she eats her dinner? Or when she yawns? It’s the same thing. Tell her.”

  Headmistress Crouch narrows her eyes at me and mutters, “How barbaric. Stick out my tongue indeed. It’s indecent! I don’t even know you.”

  That word again, barbaric. “He says he thinks you might have tongue rot and needs a closer look.” There, you pompous peacock, that’s for your nastiness.

  The woman gasps. “I do NOT have tongue rot.” She glowers at me so intently, I think her eyes might pop out like peas from a shooter.

  Ah-Suk sticks out his own tongue with an ahhhh sound, encouraging her to do the same. Headmistress Crouch shrinks back farther into Georgina’s lap, horror written plainly across her shiny face. “Stop it! Stop it, I say!” she cries in a hoarse voice.

  “Ahhh,” Ah-Suk continues to prod her.

  She resists a moment longer but finally unfurls her red flag like a petulant child. Her tongue only hangs there a few seconds, but long enough to see a thick yellow coat on its surface.

  Ah-Suk nods. “High blood pressure, causing enlarged spleen.”
<
br />   I translate.

  “Yes, I know,” Headmistress Crouch snaps. “I could’ve told you that without making me go through that rigmarole. Oh, I feel dizzy.” She lays back her head.

  “She said ‘thank you,’” I tell Ah-Suk. “What should she do?”

  “She will have to be leeched. If she doesn’t, maybe she’ll have a heart attack. She is in a bad condition.”

  Leeched. “She is not going to like that. You don’t have any herbs?”

  “Leeches are very effective at relieving excess blood pressure. She won’t feel it. And I only have my sleeping herbs, nothing stronger.”

  The girls are watching our exchange of Cantonese as if watching a match of table tennis. Katie’s lips move, trying on the words for size.

  “What’s he saying?” huffs Headmistress Crouch.

  A Boston tries to put a wet compress on the woman’s forehead, but the headmistress makes a hissing sound, and the girl shrinks away.

  I let go of the breath I am holding. Headmistress Crouch will never agree to be leeched, especially by Dr. Gunn. She’d wait until a western doctor could be found, but even a western doctor might not have the right medicine. It’s miles to the nearest hospital, assuming they’re still standing, and assuming they’d take a crotchety old woman over a bleeding earthquake victim.

  Ah-Suk circles the wrist of one hand and the other, waiting patiently for my response.

  “You said you have sleeping tea. Could she be leeched while she’s sleeping?”

  A muscle in his cheek quivers. “Of course.”

  Headmistress Crouch smacks her lips as if she is thirsty, her steely gaze still pinning me.

  “He says he will make you a cup of tea,” I tell her. “Would you like that?”

  Her eyebrows raise, and the girls begin murmuring. I can’t think of a single person who would refuse a cup of tea under the circumstances.

  I tell Ah-Suk, “She says yes.”

  He raises an eyebrow at me, and I realize I gave him Headmistress Crouch’s response before she replied. But then he nods. “I will fetch them. Bring my suitcase.”

  Creakily, the man gets to his feet and moves off toward the lake.

  “I need to get some things for Dr. Gunn,” I tell them. Catching Francesca’s eye, I hitch my head for her to follow me. Harry and Katie come, too.

  Once we are out of earshot, Francesca asks, “What’s going on?”

  “Dr. Gunn is going to give her sleeping tea. And then he wants to leech her.”

  Harry covers her ears, like I said a dirty word.

  “It’s her best chance of avoiding a heart attack.”

  “My gran said they used to leech people when she was a girl. Said it was good for releasing their bad humors. And that grouch certainly has a lot of bad humor to release.”

  “Not that kind of humor,” Francesca says with a smile. “I’m sorry she said such awful things to you, Mercy. None of us feel that way.” Harry and Katie nod. “But do you really think you should leech her without her permission?”

  “It’s not ideal. But Dr. Gunn is the most respected doctor in Chinatown and one of our sharpest minds. Elodie’s mother even came to him seeking his medicines.” I don’t elaborate. “He has cured thousands with his own hands, including my brother, who developed weak lungs from the bubonic plague vaccination. Jack would’ve died without him. And Headmistress Crouch is in serious condition.”

  Francesca stops walking and regards me seriously from under her lashes. “If you think she might die, we will help however we can.”

  “Thank you.” I march grimly, and the others match their paces to mine.

  We arrive at Ah-Suk’s camp, where Mr. and Mrs. Pang are cooking another fish in their pan. “Good morning, Auntie and Uncle.” I introduce the girls, and the Pangs greet them with a bow, which the girls awkwardly return.

  “Dr. Gunn has asked me to fetch his suitcase for him,” I explain.

  I duck into the tent and collect the case. When I emerge, Mr. Pang is showing the girls his fish, gesturing that they should try some.

  “We have already eaten, Uncle,” I tell him. With a sad expression, he puts his pan down, and I quickly add, “But we would be honored if you would join us tonight for dinner. We will be making a feast for forty-four people. Please tell your friends.”

  Mr. Pang frowns, and belatedly I realize I should not have mentioned that unlucky count. He gives me a tight smile and nods. It would be impolite for him to refuse my invitation in front of the others, but he and his family may simply decide not to show up.

  Ah-Suk’s tea set is more modern than Mr. Waterstone’s set from China, with a higher gloss and tiny flowers painted along the side. But like Mr. Waterstone’s, it comes with the same wooden tools: brush, scoop, and wand. Ah-Suk ladles water into the pot, which he stuffed with herbs from his suitcase.

  Headmistress Crouch is propped against a crate, with the pillow cushioning her back. She is breathing easier again.

  Minnie Mae holds up the little brush. “Can I do the sweeping of the spirits?”

  Ah-Suk frowns at the girl dabbing at the air.

  “Er, the earthquake is making us all a little daft,” I say to him with an embarrassed laugh.

  Ah-Suk grunts. After the herbs are steeped, he pours a dollop into one of the cups, sets down the pot, then pours the liquid back and forth from the first cup to a second cup. The girls, who are polishing off their rice porridge, watch him with round eyes. It does make for a nice show, and I wish I had thought of it for my own tea ceremony. Finally, he kneels and presents it to Headmistress Crouch. Her hands tremble, so he helps lift the delicate cup to her mouth.

  A flock of geese lands in a flurry of wings, then waddles by, honking. Their long black necks look like ladies’ gloves elegantly waving as they float by. Just before they take to the sky moments later, I’m struck by the strange beauty of the moment: Our own flock of girls, faces lit by morning light, watching Ah-Suk perform a ceremony that embodies refinement and culture; the sky, which still wears mourning gray; the sirens and the trumpets, punctuating the silence.

  I may have no notion of what’s in the beans for me now, with everything upside down and sideways. But one thing I know is that I belong in this moment.

  Headmistress Crouch frowns when she tastes the brew, which is no doubt different than the Ceylon she is expecting. I can smell the dandelion Ah-Suk put in, mixed with something I’ve not smelled before, like toasted mushrooms. But then the headmistress’s face relaxes, and she accepts another cup, and then a third.

  “That was unusual tea,” she murmurs, closing her eyes. Soon, she is breathing deeply.

  A Boston angles for a look into the teapot. “Oh please, may we have some tea, too? We could have a tea party!”

  Ah-Suk barks in Cantonese, “Let us help this woman into her tent.”

  Headmistress Crouch is lighter than I expect. Katie, Francesca, and I do the honors. Once she is inside, Ah-Suk squats in the doorway. The girls cluster behind him, bobbing this way and that for a closer look at Katie and Francesca arranging her into a comfortable position.

  “It’s not proper for me to be in this tent with a sleeping lady. You must do it.” He passes me one of the small cloth bags used to hold his herbs.

  “Me?” My stomach lurches at the thought.

  “Place these on her back where she is unlikely to see the marks.” He doesn’t bother to whisper, as no one can understand him, anyway. “The leeches deposit a numbing substance before they bite, so she won’t feel them. They will detach by themselves when they are full, so do not pry them off, or you may cause infection.”

  I think about all the leeches we pulled off prematurely yesterday. My skin suddenly feels very itchy. Maybe we’re all dying of the plague this very instant.

  “Mercy, are you paying attention?”

  “Yes, A
h-Suk.”

  “Use the remaining tea in this cup to get the blood to clot afterward, or it will bleed for hours. Very messy.”

  “Okay,” I say in a shaky voice, imagining Headmistress Crouch waking up in a pool of her own blood. “Where will you be?”

  “Outside.” His Cantonese is heavy with sarcasm. “Hosting a tea party.”

  He snorts loudly, then ties the tent door closed. I stare at the canvas in amazement. That sly Dr. Gunn understands English after all.

  30

  FRANCESCA, KATIE AND I MANAGE to unbutton Headmistress Crouch’s shirt without waking her. Thankfully, her corset already lies in a corner of her tent. Harry has disappeared, probably to Canada. I show the girls the wiggling bag of leeches, and Francesca turns a pale shade of green.

  “Why don’t you grab some of that rice porridge for us before everyone eats it?” I suggest, though I doubt I will be able to eat until next month.

  Francesca shakes her head. “No. I’ll help you. Katie, you go look after Harry.”

  “All right. Here’s mud in your eye, suckers,” Katie whispers to the bag of leeches, then leaves.

  I pluck up a blob. It reminds me of the gallbladder Ma would pull out of the chicken, one of the few pieces she would discard. When the leech begins to squirm, my own gallbladder shudders in response. I force myself to focus on Headmistress Crouch’s shoulder blades, which look like shark fins, while I very carefully stick the suckers to her veined back.

  With a blank expression one toe away from horror, Francesca helps me place the leeches as briskly as layering pepperoni on a pizza.

  I thought being leeched was the most repulsive thing that could happen to me, but I was wrong. Watching leeches gorge themselves on someone else’s blood, even if that blood belongs to someone you dislike . . . that takes the biscuit.

  No wonder Tom would rather fly than step into his father’s shoes.