River of Dust

by Virginia Pye

  Reverend Martin shouted and waved frantically for them to stop. "That is all for today. Help yourselves to water in the courtyard, and please return for Bible study at four this afternoon."

  But the people did not seem to hear. They continued to surge toward the Reverend with outstretched arms. Grace was not surprised to see them clamoring for his attention. She herself had done as much in recent weeks, but with little success.

  Now the dizziness and humming in her head became quite forceful. Perhaps Mai Lin's medicines had worn off altogether, Grace thought, and she looked around for her servant with a growing sense of panic. The trick with her potions was to maintain the correct balance, and clearly Grace had gone too long without being administered to. She knew Mai Lin did not care for Sunday services, always a sticking point between her and the Reverend, but Grace was certain she would at least stay nearby when her mistress was in such a weakened state.

  The vibrations inside her skull were decidedly pronounced, and Grace shut her eyes. She longed for bed. Then, just when she thought she might faint, the Reverend's voice boomed over the chapel again, and the entire congregation snapped to attention, including his wife.

  "Silence!" he bellowed. He pointed at the crowd, his long arms sweeping over them. They stopped where they stood. "The Lord, the greatest Ghost Man of all, wishes you to file out peacefully, get into your carts, and go home to rest on the Sabbath. Tomorrow you will rise, and the crops will have grown."

  The crowd let out a hopeful gasp.

  "Go now in peace." The Reverend swept his hands through the air, his fingers spread wide like great nets to catch them and pull them into his embrace. "I bless thee, my children. I bless thee."

  Grace shut her eyes and tried to feel his blessings rain down upon her. All around, she felt the crowd ebbing back out the door. She kept her eyes pinched shut and waited for her husband's absolving hand upon her arm.

  Eight

  G race had come to think of the iron gates of the mission compound as the gates of heaven and herself as one of the Lord's many helpers. It was her job to welcome each new arrival, to set them at ease and oversee their transition into this new world. At night in restless sleep, she watched out her window as figures came toward her. Then, in the morning, she had to shake such visions from her head and try to understand them as but overwrought dreams, although they had appeared so real. But now, in the late-afternoon light of early autumn, she watched as actual people of all ages came plodding into the mission. Every one of them Chinese, yet nonetheless she searched amongst the multitudes of black heads for her towheaded children. They lived for now amongst the masses, but soon Grace would spot them and fly down into the courtyard and bring them home.

  Long shadows preceded each person who entered the courtyard as the sun cut across the plains. They walked with heads bent, these tired people, the young as well as the old and infirm. Even the strongest and healthiest amongst them walked with sloped shoulders, hardly lifting their feet from the dusty ground. In their weariness, they all looked alike to Grace, and she thought that was how it was meant to be: all of God's children were identical in the end. She could see that now.

  It was a lesson she would never have believed while in America, but now it seemed so obvious. Here in China, the vast numbers of people staggered along day after day, struggling to feed and clothe themselves and their families. Their skinny bodies all appeared to share the same misery. There was no color to them, no liveliness any longer even amongst the young ladies. A girl in America could be quite vivid: Grace and her friends dressed in Easter pastels in springtime, rich reds at Christmas, with ribbons to match in their hair. She searched now for any sign of brightness but saw only the shadows of strangers. All of them were daguerreotypes, tinted brown by the sun, the desert soil, and whatever other dusty matter made up their souls.

  The crowd that poured in through the open gate appeared more sizable than usual, and Grace squinted hard to keep track of each new arrival. Their carts and donkeys waited outside the compound, and she rose from her bed to spy over the high wall to search for anyone who might have been left behind on a buckboard or under a bale of hay. It was difficult, but she needed to keep track of them all.

  In a flash, and out of the corner of her eye, she thought she saw a pale face down near the ground. Grace swore she spotted small hands holding fast to a woman's filthy black skirt. Could it be a blond child, her child?

  Grace called sharply to Mai Lin. The old woman sat, as she always did, on a spindly chair in the corner of Grace's bedchamber. Her hair looked wilder than ever, and her little clublike feet— squeezed into brocaded shoes no bigger than Grace's small clenched fist— were hitched up on the rungs as if she were some sort of monkey. Despite Mai Lin's unfortunate appearance, Grace felt such warmth toward her. She wasn't sure why, but she did.

  "Dear Mai Lin," Grace said breathlessly, "the day has come! Dress me quickly, please. I have seen my son."

  Mai Lin rose, and as she came forward, Grace noticed something she had not before.

  "I have been remiss," she said as she lifted a brush from her dressing table and combed her hair for the first time in weeks. "I have never asked you, Mai Lin: are you in great pain? You hobble from the feetbinding of your childhood. I wonder if every step hurts. Is that how it feels?"

  Mai Lin waved a hand as if brushing away a fly. "It is no matter about me. Mistress is feeling better today. She sees her baby coming back to her."

  "Yes, yes, that's right," Grace said and let Mai Lin take the brush from her hand to continue the job. "Let's hurry now, so he doesn't leave again like that other time."

  Mai Lin dressed her in a simple frock because the autumn afternoon was still warm and Grace could not be bothered with all the layers of petticoats. Her enlarged belly was visible, and she felt certain the others would understand that in her condition, she couldn't possibly be encumbered by all the usual undergarments.

  She allowed Mai Lin to tie her sash, but not too tightly. Then she dashed out of the room.

  "Careful on the steps, Mistress," Mai Lin called after her. "You are more light-headed than you realize."

  Grace could not be bothered with such concerns, although she did find that her vision was playing tricks on her. When she went to hold the balustrade at the top of the stairs, there were two finials, not the usual one. She must remember to speak to Mai Lin about her dosage. The medicines were crucial to controlling her nervous condition, but much of the time, they left her feeling as drunk as a sailor, which was not proper of course but did add to her mood of levity. The reunion she had dreamed of was about to transpire.

  She traipsed lightly down the wooden steps, flew across the wide front hallway, and opened the screen door. Grace stepped out onto the grand porch and abruptly came to a halt. Before her were swarms of people. Chinese people. She had known they had entered, but from upstairs she had not seen their distinct features, their slick black hair, their dusty lined faces, the stained or missing teeth. And the stench emanating from them almost made her gag. What on earth were they all doing here? she wondered.

  Then she remembered what had taken place on this same soil about a decade before. She had learned about it on the day she had first met the Reverend in Ohio. The story of the Boxer Rebellion had been seared into her mind, and it had never been far from her thoughts since her arrival in Shansi Province.

  The dear missionary families of the past had been swarmed by angry Chinese. The crazed peasants came down from the villages in the mountains. They swooped in from every desert hamlet. They bore sticks and rocks and even guns. With war cries, they rallied their own into a frenzy of violence. Grace had heard stories of it any number of times over the past four years since her arrival here.

  "Foreign devils," they had shouted, "you have poisoned our wells, dried up our fields, and sent our children to heaven! Soon we shall all die unless we kill you first."

  "The gods are angry that we smoked the opium of the white man's religion," others had sh
outed. "It is because of this Jesus person that we are slaves now and starving. We will make the rain come, but first, we begin with a rain of blood!"

  Grace shivered at the thought. On an afternoon not unlike this one, the bands of barbarians had killed those who they believed were the source of their misery. Grace would forever remember the final count: 180 missionaries murdered— men, women, and innocent children. Their valiant story, and then the young Reverend Watson's contagious plan to be amongst the first brave souls returning to this land only a few years after the onslaught had taken place— well, of course, she had been propelled to join him in this frightful place. Her husband had been on the veritable front lines, and now it was her turn, too.

  She raced back into the house and found a broom in a closet. As she cut back through the parlor and headed out the front door again, Ahcho appeared beside her. Grace was also dimly aware of Mai Lin making her way slowly down from the second floor.

  "Mistress," Ahcho said, "how wonderful to see you up. You are feeling better?"

  Grace paused for a moment and glanced at him. He looked inordinately calm. Why was no one else preparing to fight the oncoming horde? Had Ahcho not noticed them pouring into the yard?

  "We must do our duty," she shouted and made for the door.

  "Shall I sweep the porch for you?" he offered as he followed. "You must not exert yourself, Mistress."

  Now Grace could hear Mai Lin coming along behind her. Surely dependable Ahcho and dear Mai Lin would see the situation for what it was and help. But they were moving too slowly, and she could not wait for reinforcements. Grace hurried down the porch steps and began stabbing the dusty ground at the feet of the milling Chinese. She used the straw broom to attack their bare toes. The coolies hopped back, startled, and barked in surprise at being poked by stiff bristles.

  "Shoo, shoo," Grace shouted. "Away with you!"

  As some staggered back, others filled in their places. She felt their bodies pressing toward her. Her heart beat faster, but she told herself she must not give up. Her husband had been brave so many times, and now was her chance to finally join him in his zealotry. She spun in circles, swinging the broom wide in the air to keep them away.

  "Out," she shouted. "Out you go!"

  Then she felt a warm hand on her arm and let the head of the broom drop to the ground. She felt surprisingly dizzy, but luckily, the hand held her steady. The unsettling vibrations that had overtaken her brain began to recede again, and Grace vaguely wondered what had come over her.

  "Mistress," Ahcho said, "may I take this from you now?" He reached for the broom.

  She looked up, more than a little confused, but trusted his kind voice. She felt as baffled as in the mornings after waking from her hallucinations. Whatever was going on in her mind? she wondered.

  "This is what you want instead, yes?" he asked.

  Ahcho's hand appeared before her. In his palm sat a small bar of lye soap and a white rag that she knew served as a washcloth.

  "It is Friday today, Mistress. They are here for their weekly baths."

  He gently touched her shoulder again and steered her in the direction of the Chinese women who stood in a line before the metal tub.

  "They would be most honored to receive their soap and small cloths from the Reverend's excellent wife."

  Grace ran her palms down the front of her slip and straightened it as best she could. She suddenly felt terribly underdressed. She should not be seen by these new congregants in her flimsy petticoat. Why had Mai Lin allowed her out without the proper attire? Although Grace had to question her own judgment in this instance as well.

  "Am I all right?" she whispered to Ahcho.

  "Absolutely." He nodded. "They are pleased to meet you."

  She tried to stand taller. "As I am to meet them."

  Grace pulled back her shoulders and made her way to her position beside the tub. She prepared to greet each tired and filthy new Christian with a smile, although she feared that she needed a bath as badly as they did. And if somehow her mind could be scrubbed clean as well, she would be most grateful.

  Nine

  W ould you care for a cup of tea?" Mildred Martin inquired, her eyebrows raised. The Martins' number-one boy poured, and Grace smiled when he held up a rare lump of sugar with silver tongs. Mildred must have saved her small store of the precious sweet for special occasions, which gave Grace a shred of optimism about this visit. She so wanted them to be friends again.

  As Grace accepted the cup and saucer and placed them on the table, she hoped that her trembling hand was not too noticeable. In the four years since she had arrived in Fenchow-fu, Mildred, though only slightly older, had watched over her with a mother's keen eye. Indeed, Mildred was watching her now. There would be no hiding Grace's delicate condition.

  "You do not look well," Mildred began and patted Grace's thin wrist. "But, of course, you have been through so much."

  The two ladies looked down at their laps and slowly shook their heads.

  "It must lead you to prayer more than ever," Mildred said.

  Grace agreed, although oddly, she did not pray often anymore. She

  was far too occupied with keeping track of her dreams and all that business out the window. Her vigilance required a great deal of her.

  "The baby will help you enormously," Mildred said, now giving Grace's hand a firm squeeze as a signal for Grace to let go, which she did reluctantly.

  "My little Daisy has made my earlier loss all but disappear from my mind. Of course my earlier one never saw the light of day, unlike your dear little boy, who made it all the way to three years of age."

  Grace wished her friend would refrain from mentioning her son, especially not in the past tense as if he had died, which Grace was convinced he had not. She tried to recall if she had ever told Mildred about the two she had lost to miscarriage as well. Those were terrible, but nothing compared to the open wound left by her stolen boy.

  "I do hope for that, Mildred. You are most blessed with precious Daisy."

  Hearing her name, the little girl rose from where she played with blocks on the Chinese carpet. She toddled over, placed a block in her mother's lap, looked up, and spat out the word "block" as if it were the most thrilling thing on earth. Grace could not help letting out a giggle. The child was just so darling. But the little girl looked up at Grace and frowned. She took a handful of her mother's fine skirt and wrinkled it in her chubby fingers.

  "I believe I have upset her," Grace said.

  "Nonsense," Mildred said. "Daisy, say hello to Mrs. Watson."

  Daisy continued to frown at Grace as she pawed at her mother's lap. Mildred lifted her daughter and set her upon her knee. Daisy twisted her body away so as not to look at Grace.

  "I won't bother you, darling girl," Grace said. She longed to reach across and touch that fine blond hair, so like her own Wesley's that it pained her heart. "But did you know that very soon you will have a new playmate?"

  Daisy glanced back at Grace with a skeptical look.

  "I have a baby coming soon, and he or she will be your new friend."

  This seemed to finally set Daisy at ease. The girl pushed off from her mother's arms, clambered back down onto the rug, and waddled to her blocks. Grace and Mildred took up their cups and drank as Daisy commenced building a tower.

  "Your Reverend," Mildred asked, "he is excited about the child?"

  "Oh, yes," Grace replied with enthusiasm.

  "And you believe he intends to be around more often once the baby arrives?" Mildred's voice sounded rather pinched, Grace thought.

  "I assume so. We have not discussed it."

  "Really? You are entering your sixth month of pregnancy, and you have not discussed it?" Mildred's eyebrows rose again. "I would think that would be a most important topic at this time." Then she leaned closer and asked, "Do you actually know where he goes when he leaves for days and weeks at a time?"

  Grace set down her cup and sat up straighter in her chair, "Why, to the o
utlying churches, of course."

  Mildred let out a stifled laugh that cut Grace to the quick.

  "My dear," Mildred said, "that man is gone more often than he is here. Do you think he has any concept of the frenzy he has created with all these new supposed converts whom my husband has been left to deal with? All I am saying is that it is not always best for the mission to have your Reverend gone. And I suspect it is not terribly good for you, either, especially in your condition."

  Grace shifted in her seat and wondered if she should just rise and exit at that very moment. No one should be permitted to speak of the Reverend in such disdainful and critical tones. He was head of the mission and respected far and wide. He had built the hospital in which Mildred's child had been born, and the schools where the Chinese children were taught. But, instead of leaving in protest, Grace reached up her sleeve and brought out her linen handkerchief. As she dabbed at her eyes, she glanced at Mildred and saw genuine concern on the other woman's face. Grace's hand that held the kerchief fell heavily to her lap.