by Zhang Ling
“Stella, don’t worry. It’s Pastor Billy.”
She fixed her eyes on me. They were hollow and lost. At that moment, I wasn’t even sure she recognized me.
“What do you think you’re doing, bullying her like this?” I shouted at the children, enraged.
They were silent. After a long moment, the leader snorted. “The Japanese have all seen it. Why can’t we?”
Another child sneered and said, “My mom said she’s spoiled goods. She sleeps with anyone. Her own man doesn’t want her anymore.”
“Dao ni shi niang! Get out of here!” I roared.
I knew I’d torn my vocal cords, because I could taste a trace of blood in my throat. The phrase I used was a curse in the local dialect. In Mandarin, the common language, there were some vaguely corresponding phrases, but none carried the same venom as this one. An analysis of each word led to two possible understandings, either of which implied a hope that the worst treatment be visited upon the hearer’s mother or possibly all his female ancestors. Taking into account every word I had ever said, I had never used any other language so potent. I’d often begged for God’s forgiveness for smaller offenses before, but this time, I wasn’t the least bit repentant. The children were defeated by my words. They’d never imagined a foreigner with blue eyes could speak their dialect so easily with such intense anger. With a crash, they scattered like a frightened flock of sparrows.
“Stella, forgive me. I’m too late.”
Kneeling before Stella, I wept. I couldn’t see myself, but I knew I wept like a woman who’d lost her life savings to a band of thieves. She let me tie the girdle around her waist and put her shoes on her, then wipe the dirt from her clothes. The buttons on the boy’s shirt she wore had been torn off, and it couldn’t be closed. To cover her half-bared breast, I had to tie my handkerchief around her like a scarf. As I did, she sat motionless, neither cooperating nor resisting, and there was no trace of the strong shame that had once been so apparent in her face. A middle-aged woman ran up the slope toward us. I guessed she had run a long way, since she was panting heavily and holding her chest with one hand, as if her heart would leap into her palm at any moment.
“These evil kids with rotten lungs! Won’t they ever die?” the woman cried as she ran. The former phrase she had shouted was one commonly used in the local dialect to refer to a naughty or unruly child.
Looking at me warily, she said, “Who are you?”
I said, “I’m Pastor Billy, Ah Yan’s friend.”
She sighed in relief, then said, “I know. You’re the kind foreigner. Ah Yan said you saved her life.”
“Who are you?” I asked the woman.
She hesitated, then said, “I’m Ah Yan’s aunt.”
“It’s only been a month. How did this happen?” I asked.
She sat on the ground, lifted up the hem of her shirt, and wiped her tears.
“Everything was fine when Ah Yan came back. The villagers pointed fingers behind her back a little, but they didn’t do it to her face. Fearing she would encounter the Japanese again, I shaved her head and told her to wear men’s clothes. Who could have known that the one who would ruin her wouldn’t be the Japanese, but Scabby?” she said.
“Who’s Scabby?” I asked.
“A local layabout,” she said. “When Ah Yan went to chop wood, she ran into Scabby along the way. He dragged her into the forest, and . . . and he . . . he defiled her.”
I glanced at Stella and signaled the woman not to say any more. She sighed and said, “Her mind’s gone. Whatever you say, she doesn’t hear it.”
She went on, “When she came home, she didn’t tell me, but she didn’t dare go out alone again. When Scabby didn’t see her, he came to our house looking for her. At night, he climbed the wall, then went through the window to Ah Yan’s room. Ah Yan woke me before he could do anything. After that, she didn’t dare sleep alone, so she moved into my room.
“But Scabby wouldn’t give up. Knowing we didn’t have a man in the house, he came knocking on the door in the middle of the night. When I didn’t answer, he stood outside, shouting curses, saying that the Japanese had already damaged the goods, so why protect her? I took the kitchen knife and went out to threaten him. Only then did he flee. But to really ruin her, he went to all the women in the village saying Ah Yan had slept with their men, charging a copper coin each time. He was very convincing, and those idiots believed it. So wherever Ah Yan went, they followed her, shouting curses, and told their children to chase her and beat her.
“Her mind couldn’t take it. She would alternate between confusion and alertness. I kept the door locked all the time and didn’t let her out. But I had an urgent matter to attend to today and forgot to lock the door when I left. She wandered out on her own.”
Stella looked at us blankly. Her eyes were on us, but they seemed to pierce through us into some distant place, a delicate smile touching the corners of her mouth. The smile had nothing to do with joy or mockery, but was just a habit of the muscles. I knew her mind was lost. Walking in this world now was just a mindless body. I was torn with grief. I closed my eyes and prayed silently, God, please give her back her heart. Please. I felt my prayer was weak and that God was far away from me. At that moment, I did not know where he was or even where I was. God, I know every request has a price. If it is your will, I willingly shorten my years, give my life for hers. I put my life in your hands. I only ask that you let this poor girl live well, I prayed.
From the time I learned to speak, my parents had taught me to pray. From the time I was small, I had sought God’s blessing countless times, whether it be a serious matter like saving a person’s life or as trivial as getting tickets to the circus. If all the prayers in my life were strung together, they would reach the moon. And I didn’t know how many God heard, because I rarely got a response. But this time, as I was impulsively praying, he heard me, and he answered. Nearly two and a half years later, when I was aboard the Jefferson, when I saw the shadow of Death’s wings descend on the cabin wall, I finally heard and understood God’s response.
“Where did her man go? Those children said her man abandoned her?” I asked.
The woman was taken aback and turned her head to look at Ah Yan. Shaking her head, she said, “What man? Ah Yan is not married.”
“What about her brother? Ah Yan said she had a brother?”
She hesitated, then shook her head again. She said, “Ah Yan is an only child. She has no brother.”
In that instant, I made a decision. Usually when I undertake a big decision, I seek God’s will first, but I didn’t do so on this occasion. I knew God would not refuse me.
“Let me take Ah Yan with me. She can’t stay here,” I said to the woman.
She was surprised. She hadn’t expected such a request from me. She thought for a moment, then knelt and kowtowed to me.
“You are her lifesaving bodhisattva. On behalf of her mother and father, I thank you for your great kindness. If she stays here, there is no way she could survive. I’m just a woman. I can’t protect her. When I die, she’ll be left without care.”
Standing, I extended my hand to Stella.
“Child, come home with me, OK?” I said gently.
Like a marionette whose strings I held, she obediently stood and followed me. When we had gone just a few paces, the woman said, “Wait here for a moment, I’ll be right back.” Fifteen minutes later, the woman came back carrying an old book.
“This is Ah Yan’s favorite book. Please take it with you,” she said, giving it to me.
We slowly made our way down the forty-one steps. From above, the water looked different. I couldn’t see the stones beneath the water clearly, but I could see the shape of the river’s course. It made a gradual bend not far away, and farther, it made a wider bend, until it turned to a place beyond my view. The dandelions on the hillside had blossomed, and their seeds flew in the wind. From a distance, they looked like a cluster of misty clouds. A fishing sampan was tied to the r
ocks on the shore, and a boatman sat on the bow, smoking a water pipe and listening to the egrets mutter as they went in and out of the water. I carried the bicycle on my shoulder, balancing the medicine box in my other hand. Stella walked silently beside me, head bowed. She wasn’t watching the path. She didn’t need to. She knew every stone underfoot with her eyes closed. She was looking at the hole that had just appeared in her shoe. As we came to the end of the forty-one stone steps, she hadn’t looked back, not even once. She didn’t look back once at the place she’d lived for fourteen years, this village called Sishiyi Bu. The woman followed us all the way to the sampan. As the boatman untied the rope, she suddenly clasped Stella’s hand.
“Ah Yan, your aunt is sorry. Please don’t blame me.”
Even after the sampan had traveled a great distance, I could still hear the woman weeping.
When we arrived home, I told the cook to boil a pot of water so Stella could have a good bath, and I found a floral scarf to tie over her head and a box of Jenny’s old clothes. Soon her hair would grow like grass, and she could braid it again. When she had bathed and changed, I brought her to Jenny’s mirror. She turned away, disgust flashing in her eyes. A hint of secret joy came to my heart seeing this trace of emotion. Her mind wasn’t lost, just in a deep sleep. Given enough time and peace, it would eventually wake up. Now that she was here with me, I didn’t have to worry about her from a distance anymore. I could set my mind at ease and try to find the crack that would let me in to her feelings.
That night, I felt an excitement I hadn’t felt in a long time. Jenny was dead, but I was still alive. I’d been doing all the things we used to do together, but without the sense of purpose that had been behind them. I’d been moving out of inertia, drifting about aimlessly. Now, this girl named Stella was a star God had sent me. With her gravity, she pulled me back to earth, reminding me that I could not only walk but also find a path. I suddenly had a purpose. I couldn’t save everyone—that was God’s business—but perhaps I could save one person. In God’s eyes, a thousand years was like a day, and a day was like a thousand years. In the same way, one person was a universe, and perhaps the universe was a single person.
I didn’t keep Stella in the house, as I had before. Instead, I took her through the village, introducing her to everyone I met, saying, “This is an orphan I’ve taken in. Her name is Stella, which means ‘star.’ She will live here, helping me around the church.” I asked Stella to help me with the small vegetable garden in front of the church. We weeded and harvested, just like any other villagers. I asked the cook to give her tasks, such as boiling water, washing dishes and vegetables, and washing and mending clothes. On Wednesday, when I distributed porridge, we lit a fire, cooked the porridge, and served it together. I asked her to come to Sunday service. She always sat on the aisle of the last row, sometimes sleeping and sometimes awake. I couldn’t tell if she listened at all. After service, I asked her to clean the candlestick holders and windows. I watched her as she was doing these tasks and found she wasn’t lazy about any chore, but neither did she show any interest in them, no more than she did anything else. When the church closed for the night, I asked her to copy psalms for me or to repair damaged hymnals. This had been her favorite thing to do before, but now it was done only out of obedience. She no longer asked me about new words, nor did she ask me to read to her. After she finished one psalm, if I didn’t ask her to copy more, she would just sit silently, sometimes for ten minutes and sometimes for as long as an hour. I carefully moderated my behavior toward her, not showing any concern and never mentioning our previous acquaintance. I knew that both questions and comfort would serve as a reminder of what she most needed to forget.
A few times, I placed the book her aunt had given her within her reach. She didn’t even look at it. When she wasn’t around, I skimmed through it and found it was the Chinese translation of Huxley’s Evolution and Ethics. This book had probably traveled a great distance in someone’s pocket. The spine and corners were frayed, and there was a name written in fountain pen on the title page: Liu Zhaohu. I surmised that he was the original owner of the book, probably a student attending school in the city, since fountain pens were rare in the countryside. I suddenly understood. Stella wasn’t able to read such a difficult book, but she loved it because of the name written on the title page.
Life went on uneventfully, the sun rising and setting again and again. Our conversation consisted of me speaking and her listening or me asking a question and her giving a brief answer. She almost never initiated conversation or expanded on any topic I started. That was all left to me. The only thing that changed was that her hair grew. One day, as she was washing it in the backyard, I noticed her hair had grown into a glistening handful. She was a seedling I had forcefully transplanted. I wasn’t sure if the place she’d been broken had healed, and I didn’t know if she had planted any roots in the new soil. I couldn’t see the roots, so could only guess from the leaf. But this leaf refused to reveal the secrets of its root. I prayed for Stella every day. These prayers, like so many I had prayed before, were taken by the wind before ever reaching God. But one day as I prayed, I suddenly heard a word from God: My servant, is your leaf yellow? I wasn’t sure if it was a metaphor or a question. After contemplating carefully for a while, I suddenly understood. True, her leaf hadn’t sprouted any new green, but it also hadn’t turned yellow, which meant the root had not rotted. I couldn’t see the change in the seedling because I lacked patience.
I waited, almost hopeless, through this long summer and fall, and into the winter of 1943. That winter was particularly long and cold. My wide circle of friends all brought equally bad news from the outside, news of bombings, cities falling into enemy hands, occupation, and fleeing . . . It was all very strange, as if it had nothing at all to do with Yuehu, as if Yuehu were in the magical Chinese novel Journey to the West and contained within a golden circle drawn by a bodhisattva with a golden cudgel. As long as the people in Yuehu were inside this circle, the poison of the world outside couldn’t harm it. The war had been going on for several years, but Yuehu’s sky had never seen the trail of a plane, and on its ground, there wasn’t a single soldier’s footprint. On the twenty-sixth day of the twelfth lunar month, it began to snow, and it snowed for three days and three nights. The village elders said they hadn’t seen such snow in thirty years. When the snow stopped, I looked out and saw that the trees and houses had all disappeared. The snow erased the edges of everything.
I had sent the cook home for the New Year festival, leaving just Stella and me in the church. In order to save charcoal, we only kept one stove lit. The snow sealed us in, and we warmed ourselves by the stove. I was reading The Pilgrim’s Progress from This World, to That Which Is to Come, and she was making new shoes for me, stitching together fragments of fabric to form the soles. She spent most of her spare time making shoes for me. The cloth shoes she made would carry me to heaven, even allowing me to take a few turns around paradise. The wind and snow outside had ceased, and the branches no longer scraped the windows. The insects and birds slept, and the loneliness of winter was lengthened many times by silence. When Stella’s hand got cold, she stopped and held it to the fire, then continued sewing. The sweet potatoes we’d placed at the edge of the fire grew fragrant. Stella’s needle went in and out of the thick fabric, like the scratching of a cat’s claws, hurting my ears. When I could stand no more, I tossed the book to the table. I wanted to roar, Stella, for God’s sake, say something! Would it kill you to speak? But the words stuck in my throat, and I swallowed them. Startled, she put down her work, looking at me with fear and confusion. Then I was glad I hadn’t let the careless words slip from my mouth. What if she had responded, Will it kill you if I don’t speak? I was ashamed. I had spent every day worrying about how to mend Stella’s roots, but she was much stronger than I was. Her roots could find their way alone in strange soil, but I always needed to lean on another, to have someone to keep me company.
The long, cru
el silence was finally broken two days before the New Year festival, when I was awakened by a sharp knock on the door. Knocking on the door in the middle of the night was never a good thing, especially at a time so close to the New Year. Worried, I got up and opened the door to find two men carrying a stretcher—actually just a quilt draped between two poles. On the quilt lay a patient. The three of them were farmers from the neighboring village. The man had been suffering from abdominal pains for two days, but because of the heavy snow, and because it was the end of the year, they had hoped to wait until after the New Year festival to seek help. But that day, the pain was increasingly intense, and the man had passed out and had to be carried here.
I did an exam and found that the symptoms were consistent with acute appendicitis. The nearest hospital was 112 miles away. In the deep snow, it would take at least three days and three nights to walk there. The only option was to perform an appendectomy on the spot. I had treated various injuries for the villagers who lived nearby, but I had never performed an open surgery in the church. Still, I had no choice. I couldn’t just watch him die and do nothing. Fortunately, I had just secured a small amount of narcotics on the black market through friends. I woke Stella and asked her to boil water, sterilize the surgical equipment, prepare the kerosene and alcohol lamps, and move the table to the middle of the room and place a clean sheet on it. Then, I started the surgery.