City of Tranquil Light

by Bo Caldwell

  Together we returned to the large hall and closed the doors behind us, then stacked benches nearly six feet high against the doors. The room became dark; it was by then light outside, but only a few thin lines of gray light from cracks in the boarded-up windows found their way into the room. The darkness seemed to deepen the room’s quiet, and the only sound I heard was that of a roomful of people breathing.

  An hour passed. Everything was eerily quiet, the sounds of battle muffled and distant. The darkness slowly lightened as the winter sun rose outside, bringing everyone into focus. In the far corner, Katherine and two of the older girls quietly played guessing games with the younger children, trying to keep them occupied. In the corner diagonally across from the children, Mo Yun wiped the brows of two men who had the fevers of malaria. Katherine had worried about the healthy being in such close proximity to the sick but saw nothing we could do about it, and she had finally shrugged and said, “If God’s going to protect us from soldiers, He’s going to have to protect us from our own sick as well. We’ll do what we can.” In the center of the room, filling every space between the corners, were old people and young, parents holding their children, older siblings holding younger ones, all of them waiting for what we didn’t know.

  Shortly before noon we heard shots being fired. We had not heard gunfire for several hours, and the whole room tensed as fear spread through it. I asked God to give us the strength to endure whatever He allowed to happen next. Two of the older boys who were acting as lookouts upstairs called down that no soldiers were in sight; the shooting was still coming from within the city walls. We learned later that the southern army was finishing off a dozen northern soldiers they had shot earlier and left for dead but who had somehow survived.

  Another hour passed. We took turns standing to stretch and walk around the room, a few people at a time. The youngest children had fallen asleep; the older ones warily watched the adults. A baby cried softly and a few people whispered to each other. A woman near me held her sleeping child in her arms. When the mother looked at me, I saw fear and pain in her face, which caused me to speak.

  “Christ is with us,” I said quietly. “He is with us now and He will see us through this crisis. When our Lord was in the boat with His disciples and the storm came up, He said, ‘Let us go over to the other side.’ He did not say, ‘Let us go to the middle and be drowned.’ He will see us safely to the other side. Whatever happens, whether we live or die, we are victorious.”

  As if on cue, we heard the faint even tread of marching feet, still at some distance. The sound of gunfire grew louder and we heard wood being hacked by swords, and I knew the southern army was destroying the compound gate. We heard shouting and the heavy sound of men running hard. The sound of gunfire became unbroken, and I could only think that for reasons I could not understand the battle was now being fought in our compound yard. The firing grew louder still. I saw Chung Hao’s lips moving and knew he was speaking to me, but his words were lost in the noise.

  “Lie flat,” I said loudly. “Everyone lie flat on the floor and do not get up.” Almost immediately every space on the floor was covered with bodies. I made my way across them, carefully stepping to a small side window toward the front of the room that looked out on the entrance to the compound. When we had boarded up the hall’s windows I had left a crude peephole, and I looked through it and saw several northern soldiers lying on the ground. Another six stood between the house and the compound wall, where a mass of southern soldiers charged into the compound. A dozen more were closer, advancing on those few northerners standing, firing heavily as they moved forward so that as I watched, one after the other of the northerners fell to the ground. Within a minute only one was left—Chang Li, one of the boy soldiers who had made himself at home in our compound six months earlier. I heard him shout, “You must not harm this place or these people. This is the Jesus church!”

  The shooting stopped for the briefest moment. In the sudden stillness the boy looked wildly around him and saw that he was alone, and I saw courage in his expression. Then he fell to the ground, the last to be shot down.

  I stood frozen at the window, staring out at the bodies of fourteen northern soldiers. A wave of raw anger ran through me, a rage unlike anything I had ever felt. I had been taught since I was a small boy to abhor violence, and that the use of force against anyone, whatever the reason, violated God’s word. As an adult I had honored that belief and made certain that our compound stocked no ordnance whatsoever. But at that moment my convictions fell away. Nearly everyone I loved on this earth was in that room and I knew that had I had access to a weapon of any sort, at that moment I would have used it without hesitation.

  I breathed; I forced my attention to God and asked Him to direct my thinking, and my emotions quieted enough to think more rationally. If we did nothing, I was certain we would be killed; some action was required. I walked to the double doors and motioned to Chung Hao, and the two of us shoved aside the pews blocking the doors. I looked at the roomful of people again and in my mind I saw them running into the courtyard and being shot down like the soldiers in a matter of seconds. “Do not move,” I said. My eyes met Katherine’s and I stared at her hard and in English I said to her, “I beg of you, stay where you are,” and she nodded. Then I opened the door and closed it behind me and hurried through the house to the front door and the compound yard. I had no plan; I knew only that my choice was to wait for the conquering army or go out and meet them myself. As sitting in a closed room while victory-crazed soldiers hacked down our door did not seem like much of a strategy, I chose the latter.

  When I stepped out of the house and into the courtyard I found myself facing a line of southern soldiers advancing toward me, bayoneted rifles and swords drawn. I raised my hands above my head and called out, “I am unarmed. This is my home.”

  The soldiers paused, their guns still raised, and for a moment they stood motionless. I raised my hands higher above my head. “If I am to die,” I said loudly, “allow your officer to kill me.”

  I saw movement among the soldiers as they made way for their commander, who came forward and stopped a few yards in front of his troops as his soldiers kept their guns trained on me. The commander stared at me for a long moment, sizing me up, and I feared he was about to grant me my request and kill me then and there.

  “Kuan-chang,” I said—officer—“I am Kung P’ei Te. I have lived in this city for eighteen years.”

  He said nothing at first; I was aware of gunfire some distance away, but mostly what I heard was the sound of my own hard breathing. A hundred rifles were pointed at me, and I realized they were not pointed only at me; I felt the presence of others around me and found Chung Hao on my left and Katherine on my right. In my fear, I had not felt them joining me.

  Katherine glanced at me. “I will not sit by in a boarded-up room while you die,” she said quietly. “If this is your time, it can be my time as well.” She looked behind her. “Perhaps there is strength in numbers.”

  I glanced behind us and saw the leaders of our church, those who told me in the kitchen they were ready to be the first to die if it came to that. Behind them others were joining us from the safety of the hall, so that within moments the whole assembly from inside stood behind us—old people and young, mothers holding infants, fathers holding their children. My breathing became shallow for I thought surely we had arranged ourselves perfectly for an efficient and wholesale massacre, and I was deeply afraid.

  All this time the commander continued to stare at us without expression as his men remained at the ready, their rifles trained on us, their swords at their sides. Finally he said, “Nu-shih”—miss—“step forward.”

  It seemed as if someone had grasped my heart tightly within my chest, but if Katherine felt anything like the fear I did, she did not show it. She walked forward a few paces without hesitating, her back straight, her gaze forward. I started to go with her, but Chung Hao grabbed my arm and whispered, “Wait.”

&n
bsp; The commander said, “What is your name?”

  Katherine said loudly, “My name is Kung Mei Li.”

  “You are a foreigner.”

  “Yes, by birth. But this city has been my home for eighteen years.”

  “Not such a long time in this country. Why have you made this your home? Were you invited?”

  Panicked, I began to step forward again; I knew she could be taken from me in an instant. But Chung Hao tightened his grasp on my arm and I stayed where I was.

  “We came to be of service,” she said.

  The commander laughed. “I suspect that is not all you came to do, Kung Mei Li. You preach the man Jesus, do you not?”

  “I do,” she said.

  “Are you not aware that what is well suited to you may be ill adapted to others?”

  “I am,” she said again. “But it is not a question of what is suited to me. It is a question of obeying my God and passing on what has been given to me. I would be remiss if I kept it to myself.”

  “You believe it is your duty to impose that truth on other nations?”

  “Not to impose it, sir, like a law. To share it like a gift, freely given.”

  “Your feet are set on the wrong path, Kung Mei Li. Foreigners have shown themselves to be pirates and thieves who pose as civilized peoples dealing with barbarians.”

  “Yes. Some have. But a man’s face does not always tell you what is in his heart. All foreigners are not alike.”

  The commander took several steps toward my wife. “You are different, Kung Mei Li?”

  I was staring intently at Katherine’s back. Her voice was strong and sure but I could see she was trembling. I had rarely seen her frightened, and I was about to shake free of Chung Hao’s grasp when someone pushed past me and stepped forward.

  It was Lao Chang. He stood a few feet away from Katherine, facing the southern troops. “Sir,” he said. “I have lived in this city all of my life. Kung Mei Li and Kung P’ei Te have done good things for us. They are chuan shan ti”—teachers of virtue—“and they teach us how to be good. They have brought us great good news, and for this we are in their debt.” He paused and looked at Katherine. “Kung Mei Li healed my son and caused his sight to return.”

  “Then you will not mind repaying that debt by giving your life for hers,” the commander said easily.

  Everything seemed to stop; Lao Chang looked back at me and I was struck by the peace in his expression. “Mu shih, all is well,” he said softly. He faced the southern commander and said, “If that is what is required, no, I will not mind,” his voice calm. Then, before anyone could move, the commander gave a curt command and the soldier next to him raised his rifle, aimed, and shot.

  Lao Chang dropped to the ground, and the sound of the shot echoed in the compound yard. I looked from Katherine to Lao Chang’s body and was frantically trying to think of what to do next when someone else stepped forward. The soldiers immediately trained their rifles on this new target, but the officer motioned for them to hold their fire.

  I saw only this man’s back and I did not recognize him. He wore an old gray woolen cap pulled down low over his forehead and his clothes were layers of dark gray rags. He was slight of stature and greatly stooped over; he used a cane as he walked forward. I assumed he was one of the dozens of refugees who had come to the compound over the last week.

  When he had walked a few yards forward, he stopped, facing the commander. He sniffled loudly and with the nasal whine of a professional beggar he said, “Ke-hsia”—you, sir—“pity me, pity me.” He bowed to the commander, then made a great show of standing upright again, groaning and leaning on his cane, and when he began to speak, he kept his eyes on the ground. “The pastor is honored to have you and your men as guests, and he welcomes you to the city of Kuang P’ing Ch’eng. He has prepared a gift for you and he says you would greatly honor him by accepting it. Would you indulge this servant by allowing me to bring it to you?”

  The commander appeared interested. He looked at me and gestured toward the beggar. “Wai-kuo-jen”—foreigner—“does this man tell the truth?”

  Katherine turned toward me, and when I looked at her she nodded slightly; I had no idea why. Nor did I understand why, with complete certainty, I heard myself say, “Yes, he speaks the truth.”

  The commander looked back at the beggar, whose gaze was still downward. “You may bring these gifts. My men will accompany you.” He said something to the two soldiers next to him, and they walked toward the beggar, their bayonets pointed at him.

  The beggar sniffled loudly and shuffled backward a few steps, bowing repeatedly to the commander. As the southern army and all of us from the compound watched in tense silence, the beggar walked to the side of the house, where there was a run-down old shed in which I kept my gardening tools. During the winter, when I could not garden and had no need for the tools, I boarded the shed up. But to my surprise, the beggar opened the door without any trouble; the boards I had nailed up had been removed. As the soldiers looked on from a few steps behind him, the beggar went inside and came out pushing my wheelbarrow, which was full of something and covered with an old quilt that was neatly tied down.

  With effort, the beggar pushed the wheelbarrow across the compound yard to the commander then stood before him, a soldier on either side.

  The commander seemed wary. “Mu shih,” he called to me, “come. Let us examine your gift together.” I walked forward, and when I stood next to the soldiers and the beggar, the commander motioned for one of the soldiers to cut the rope and pull back the quilt. The soldier did so, and as the quilt fell to the ground the beggar met my eyes and something jumped inside me. It was Hsiao Lao.

  The commander did not notice my surprise, as he was transfixed by what he saw, and when I looked down I too was amazed, for the wheelbarrow held luxuries I had not seen in years: a large bag of coffee, a tin of tea, four jars of jam, half a dozen cans of milk, a box of chocolates. I saw thick white towels, a pair of men’s shoes, a silver picture frame, and beneath them more items I couldn’t make out.

  The commander was clearly pleased. He rummaged eagerly through his new possessions, marveling at them, and held up a tube of Pepsodent toothpaste as if it were the greatest treasure of all. “Mu shih, you are perhaps a wise man after all. You have as your helper a beggar who gives instead of takes. You are also a fortunate man, for the gifts he brings are worthy offerings, which I will accept. For my men.”

  “Certainly,” I said, knowing full well that this was as close as any of his men would get to anything in the wheelbarrow.

  “You have won my favor, though we still have business to discuss. Come, let us reason together. Your charges will wait inside while we agree on what is next.” He was about to say something to his troops and I spoke up quickly.

  “Kuan-chang,” I said, “may we have the honor of burying our dead while there is still light?”

  The commander glanced casually around him at the bodies in our yard; he seemed not to have noticed them until then. “You inspired great loyalty in these soldiers, mu shih. They had made it safely out of the city gates and could have escaped. But they chose instead to come here to protect you, for which they were killed.”

  I repeated my request. “May we bury them?”

  “You may. But do not linger.” He shouted commands in a southern dialect I did not understand and a soldier approached us and chose eight men from behind me whom he led to the side of the yard. The commander shouted something else and two soldiers gave Hsiao Lao a rough push then led me away to the edge of the yard with the other men. When I looked back, the soldiers were herding Hsiao Lao, Katherine, Chung Hao, and the rest of our group into the house.

  The eight men and I were made to wait in the yard until everyone else was inside. By then it was afternoon and the air was a cold, gray mist that hurt my lungs when I breathed it in. The day’s pale light was fading; soon it would be gone and the fields outside of the compound would be nothing more than flat black earth.
I guessed we had less than two hours of daylight to bury fifteen bodies. With the soldiers’ permission I went to the toolshed and took the battered gardening tools I kept there: two spades, a shovel, a pickax, a hoe, and two trowels. We had two carts at the compound, and together the men and I laid the bodies of the northern soldiers carefully on the carts. I picked up Lao Chang’s body and held him for a brief moment before I laid him gently on the cart also. I could not remember ever being in the compound without him.

  The soldiers walked us out of the compound and into the nearest field. They gave no thought to an auspicious burial place and I did not ask them to; we were fortunate to be allowed to bury our dead at all. While the men with me began to dig a large grave for the soldiers, I worked at digging a resting place for Lao Chang a few yards away. We worked for nearly three hours, at the end of which I could see only directly in front of me. I heard the other men digging but could not make them out in the darkness. I finally laid Lao Chang in the earth, praying for him and the northern soldiers.

  It was dark when we returned to the compound, where we were marched through the gate and across the yard like criminals. In our absence the compound had been transformed. Soldiers were everywhere, taking what they wanted and wreaking havoc. When we reached the house, the men with me were taken toward the large hall, where the door was opened quickly and the men shoved inside. Then the door was slammed shut again and a soldier moved a bench across the doors and sat down heavily and began eating canned peaches from our cellar.

  My escorts pushed me roughly toward the stairs and fear washed over me for the hundredth time that day, for I could think of no good reason to be forced upstairs. When I reached the top step I found the floor of the upstairs hallway carpeted in feathers and saw our limp bed pillows at my feet.

  I was led to the small room I used as a study, which had been appropriated by the commander, whose name, I had learned from my escorts, was Colonel Wang. When I entered the room I found him leaning back in the rocking chair I had made when Lily was born, his legs stretched out in front of him, his feet propped up on a cardboard box that contained Mandarin New Testaments. He wore the shoes from the wheelbarrow, brown leather wingtips that had probably cost what our mission spent on food in a year. A few feet away from him, next to his muddy boots on the floor, was a small galvanized aluminum stove that we valued because it was so efficient at heating small spaces; I could get a fire going in it with only a few scraps of paper and a handful of twigs, and in those freezing winters, I treasured it more than I like to admit. The colonel had it burning nicely; the room was warmer than I had ever felt it in the winter. I saw ripped-up New Testaments on the floor and understood the reason for the warmth.