Of Ashes and Dust

by Marc Graham

  I recognized him as Shan Chang, one of the men I’d met earlier that day. He stood a full head above his countrymen and rivaled the bulk of many of the Americans who’d worked the line westward. He’d been cordial enough at our earlier meeting, but his bearing was now stern and forbidding. His feet were spread and firmly planted beneath a coarse leather apron. His facial expression implied he was not about to step aside for anyone. Speaking even more clearly than his stance was the large pickaxe he bore at port arms across his broad chest.

  Nankande exchanged a few words with the man, then turned to me.

  “He says that I must not go any farther with you. He says my father commands you to give him a . . .” Her eyes narrowed as she sought the proper word. “A symbol of your skill?”

  I nodded my understanding.

  “Thank you,” I said. “Would you mind?”

  I held out Rigel’s reins to her, and felt a thrill as her fingers brushed against mine. She looked back at me once as she led the horse toward camp. I was still grinning as I extended my hand to the man-mountain. He took my hand and stared at me expectantly, then raised his eyebrows as I adjusted my fingers within the grip. He matched the gesture, followed by what I assumed to be a question.

  “The grip of an entered apprentice,” I said.

  We traded gestures and questions and responses, neither of us understanding the other but, I hoped, following a common ritual that transcended language and culture. When we reached what should have been the exchange of the password, I was relieved to hear him speak the letter I was expecting.

  “A,” he said.

  “B,” I replied, and we both smiled in recognition.

  We passed through the signs and words for the next two degrees. When we finished, he released my hand, dropped the head of the pickaxe to the ground and rapped the heavy iron against the stony ground.

  Ping. Ping. Ping.

  The sound rang through the still night and echoed from the darkness beyond the sentry’s post. After a short pause, another set of notes answered the summons and a second man stepped out of the gloom bearing a pry bar. The newcomer exchanged a few words with Shan, then disappeared the way he’d come. After a short while, three raps rang out from the beyond, which Shan duly answered.

  Pry Bar reappeared and, after another brief exchange, Shan moved the pickaxe to his shoulder and gestured for me to pass. I stepped by him, only to be stopped short by Pry Bar, who spoke a few words to me. I stared back at him blankly, shrugged my shoulders and shook my head. The man repeated himself— slowly and more loudly this time, as though that would help— then indicated the lambskin apron tied around his waist. I finally nodded my understanding, pulled my own Masonic apron from my coat pocket and tied it around my waist.

  Satisfied, Pry Bar led me deeper into the outcropping, which formed a sort of winding, narrow corridor. Eventually, the trail opened into a natural amphitheater and I stared in wonder. The upper room of Elkhorn Tavern might have been carved into stone and carried out to the desert, so closely did the layout of the space match the lodge I’d known. But, whereas the former lodge room had its ceiling painted to represent the canopy of heaven, this lodge was roofed over by the starry night itself.

  I saluted the east, where Zhang Shu presided as master, then took a seat among my newfound brothers. While the language of the ceremony was foreign to me, I was soon caught up in the familiar rites. Before long, the ritual began to serve as its own interpreter and, by the close of the meeting, I’d picked up a handful of words in the strange tongue.

  I’d sat in lodge before with Englishmen, Scots, Irishmen, Germans, Poles—even Yankees. The commonality of religion and skin color and language, accents aside, had made the fraternal bonds easy to accept. Here, I finally began to understand brotherhood beyond the ties of Nation or Race or Creed, one based on a shared humanity under the One God, by whatever name He might be called.

  After Zhang closed the lodge, several of the younger men filed by me to shake my hand and exchange a few words of greeting. I noticed a group of older men talking animatedly among themselves and gesturing in my direction. Zhang spoke firmly to the men, who stopped their squabbling, but stormed angrily toward the exit.

  Zhang approached me then, took my hand in both of his and spoke warmly to me. He nodded toward where the other men had disappeared and shook his head, as though to dismiss their objections. I smiled and followed him out the passage, past Pry Bar and beyond giant Shan, where a pleasant surprise stood waiting.

  “I hope the meeting was not uncomfortable, Mister Robbins,” Nankande said in greeting after kissing her father and handing me Rigel’s reins.

  “Not at all,” I said. “Please express to your father my deepest gratitude for including me.”

  “Father says that you are welcome to take part at any time. He also says that, as you have proven yourself a worthy brother, you may—”

  The color drained from her face, the starlit glow of moments before replaced by a sickly pallor. She turned to Zhang and spoke to him in a harsh whisper.

  The old man gave the serene smile of a sage, quietly repeated himself and gestured toward me with an open hand.

  “What is it?” I asked, and my heart fluttered with the sudden change in tone.

  Nankande’s mouth opened as if to speak, then clamped shut again as she turned her gaze toward the stars, the ground— anywhere but at her father or myself.

  “Zhaquei, zhaquei,” Zhang said to her, then tucked his palm under her chin and raised her eyes to his.

  She gave a submissive nod, lowered her gaze again to the ground and resumed the translation.

  “He says that, as you have proven yourself worthy, you—you may court his daughter, if that is your wish.”

  The flutter in my chest took on a different character at that.

  “I’m honored,” I managed to stammer, “but . . .”

  I looked to Zhang, whose eyes beamed with the glee of a boy who had pulled off the perfect prank. Then I looked to Nankande who had the look of a frightened doe. I fought the urge to reach out to her, for fear she would bolt. I took a deep breath to settle my nerves, and spoke as evenly as possible.

  “What does his daughter wish?”

  “She—” A flush of color restored the vitality to her cheeks, and her eyes rose by a fraction. “I do not object.”

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  Washoe County, Nevada—September 1869

  “What is that he calls you?” I asked.

  The train rocked southward along the spur line toward Carson City. Nankande and I enjoyed the breeze from a flatcar. Nearby, her father sat around a cotton bale with three other elders, smoking long pipes and playing a table game with ceramic tiles.

  “Ching Ting,” Nankande said.

  Her eyes were closed, her face turned into the wind, and the sunlight limned her graceful features. Her silk blouse rippled in the breeze to hug her slender form.

  “It is Father’s pet name for me,” she said. “It means ‘dragonfly.’ ” She took a deep breath, and her face softened as she opened her eyes and looked at me. “When I was a child, I would chase dragonflies in the fields of our village. Father would tease me and say that he could not tell me apart from them when I ran about so.”

  “Does he never call you by your given name?” I asked. “It’s very pretty.”

  She lowered her eyes at that, and a look of sadness replaced the happy one of moments before.

  “No,” she said. “He does not wish to disgrace me further. He calls me only Ching Ting.”

  “Disgrace?” I said. “I don’t understand.”

  She took another deep breath, as though to rally her strength.

  “ ‘Nankande’ means ‘ugly one,’ ” she said flatly. “It is the name my father chose for me when I was born. Though he will not choose a different name for me, he does not wish to hurt me further, and so he uses only his pet name for me.”

  I stared at her in disbelief.

  “That’s terrible,
” I said. “Why would anyone give such a name to a child?”

  “My father is of the old ways. My mother was very beautiful, I am told, and—”

  “You’re told?” I said. “You don’t remember her?”

  “She died giving birth to me,” Nankande—the name now seemed shrill and cruel to me—explained. “Father says that it was because of her beauty that the gods took her from us—or perhaps because of her pride. He gave me my name so that the gods would pay no attention to me, so that they would leave us in peace.”

  “That must have been very difficult as a child,” I said, and reached out to smooth an errant strand of hair behind her ear.

  She smiled up at me and I let my fingers linger on her cheek.

  “Father did his best,” she said. “But, yes, it was difficult when the other girls’ fathers told them how pretty they were, and he never would. When he began to call me Ching Ting, it made things easier.”

  “Well, I certainly can’t call you by your given name anymore,” I said. “It would be a lie. And I don’t want to take away from your father by using his name for you.” I mulled over the problem for a moment before asking, “Do you share your father’s concerns?”

  “His superstitions?” she asked with a wry grin. “No.”

  “Good,” I said. “In that case, what is your word for ‘beautiful’?”

  “It—it is mei,” she said, as the color rose in her cheeks.

  “Mae,” I repeated. “I like it.”

  “Mind if I interrupt a moment?”

  I tore my eyes from Mae and looked up to where Stro stood over us. “Not at all.”

  “Forgive the intrusion, ma’am,” he said, “but I need to steal Jim for a bit.”

  “Of course,” she agreed, and went to join her father at his game.

  The train slowed as we entered a trackside town whose sign read Toiyabee City. Despite the lofty designation, the burg was little bigger than the dozens of hell-on-wheels towns we’d passed along the way, settlements that grew up like weeds beside the rail line. Stro pointed out a row of shanties whose shaded lamps glowed red through curtained windows.

  “Y’know, Jim,” he said, “there’s a lot simpler ways of sampling those Asian delicacies than by going through with this damn-fool courtship.”

  Jim Strobridge was a big man and—like most big men—was unaccustomed to being manhandled. So it was with surprise that he glared at me when he found himself dangling over the edge of the flatcar. He struggled to keep his boots in contact with the car’s deck as I gripped his collars to hold him out over the passing landscape. The shock quickly turned to good humor, though, and a mighty roar of laughter echoed across the Nevada plains.

  “Just checking,” he said as I pulled him back from the brink and set him on his feet again.

  A dozen pairs of shocked eyes—including Mae’s and her father’s—stared at us in wonder before quickly returning to their games or letters or naps.

  Stro threw an arm across my shoulders and led me back toward Mae.

  “Remind me never to get on your bad side.”

  The happiest day I’d ever known was a rather miserable one by other standards. Cold rains had blown in from Lake Bigler for the past several days, turning the streets of Carson City into a miry mess. Clouds hung low in the sky and cast a damp pall over the earth.

  “Have you ever seen a finer day?” I asked Dave.

  “Mm-hmm,” he grunted, then spat a stream of tobacco juice that disappeared in the mush at our feet. “Pretty much all of them.” He fixed me with a cool, cynical stare before breaking into a brown-streaked grin. “But I ain’t never seen me such a lousy day made so nice by what happened on it.”

  I gripped his shoulder and turned to watch the approach of the wedding party. The ceremony would follow the traditions of Mae’s people, but some allowances had been made for her foreign groom. Since I had no family, I’d appointed Dave to fill the role, which he happily accepted—especially the duties that involved drinking large amounts of sweet plum wine. The previous night’s festivities had made this morning hard to face, and made the ceremonial breakfast of raw eggs harder still.

  I couldn’t be sure how much of the ritual I’d had to endure was based on custom, and how much was invented to entertain the crew at the expense of the hapless groom. But it didn’t matter, for the prize that awaited me at the end of this day was worth whatever trials I might need to face. The hardest test had already been won, after all—that of earning Mae’s trust and love.

  I waited with Dave at the Strobridges’ personal railcar, alongside Stro and his wife and the buzhang—the elder next in line to Zhang Shu—who would perform the ceremony.

  The wedding party neared, singing a festive song. The past few weeks had been spent crafting the bright-colored robes and papier-mâché animal masks that now spun and dipped and swirled brightly in the grey Nevada gloom.

  At the head of the group came Zhang Shu. The hem of his brilliant purple robe was soiled with mud, but his face was radiant behind a solemn mask. I eagerly scanned the crowd for a glimpse of Mae, but she was hidden in their midst. As the party approached, Shu took his place beside the buzhang and the rest of the party peeled off to either side until, emerging from the wrapping paper of the gaily dressed attendants, my priceless gift was revealed.

  The red veil and white ceremonial makeup could not diminish her beauty, which shone through the coverings like the sun through a light mist. Mae was draped with a heavy, silk robe of red brocade, but the tent-like covering could not disguise the lissome grace of her movements as she drew near. Dave’s sharp elbow in my ribs reminded me to take a breath.

  When Mae reached my side, we turned to face the buzhang. I strained to hear over the ecstatic buzzing in my ears as Mae softly translated the man’s words. The entire celebration would last out the day, but the ceremony itself was surprisingly short. After a few words of introduction, the man confirmed our intent. He then offered us two cups of wine tied together by a red string, from which Mae and I drank at the same time.

  A murmur of approval rose from the crowd as we interlocked our arms and drained the cups. The buzhang instructed me to take Mae’s right hand in mine, if it was indeed my intent to take her as my wife. He placed his wrinkled hands around ours to pronounce the blessing.

  “Now there is no rain,” Mae translated the words, “for you are shelter to each other. There is no cold, for each is warmth to the other. No longer is there darkness or pain, for you are light and comfort to one another. Two bodies, but your hearts are joined, and you are now one person.”

  I lifted Mae’s veil and found myself lost in her deep, black eyes as I bent toward her. She leaned into me in welcome, and her breath was warm and sweet and filled my lungs with new life as I breathed in her scent. I drew her into my arms and found the rapid pounding of my heart matched, beat for beat, by hers. Dave, Shu, the Strobridges, everyone around us disappeared, and we were wrapped in a soft, warm glow that created for us a world apart as our lips met in a sublime, magical kiss.

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  Ormsby County, Nevada—February 1870

  I awakened slowly and kept my eyes closed as I savored the feminine scents and the taste of lingering kisses, the whispered sound of gentle breathing, and the wondrous feel of the soft, warm body nestled against me. After assuring myself I was truly awake, I chanced to open my eyes.

  The canvas panels of the tent were still dark at this early hour, but a lantern cast a soft amber glow throughout the space. Mae’s head lay against my shoulder, and the fan of her thick, black hair cascaded over my chest. I took a deep breath, then crawled out from under the covers, taking care not to disturb her. I quickly dressed, then stepped into the cold morning air.

  Following the wedding, the balance of the crew had continued east from Carson City to lay the track up to Virginia City. Stro had complained that the proposed route would make the Virginia and Truckee Railroad the crookedest line in the world, but Dave was confident the
crew could get it done. The boss had sent Dave east, while he ordered me west with Mae, into the mountains for some time alone.

  I blessed the crusty foreman for the hundredth time as I came out of the tent and looked down the slope from our campsite. Lake Bigler—some of the locals called it Tahoe—was a yawning black gulf in the predawn darkness, but the snow-covered peaks on the other side were beginning to glow with the first hints of sunrise.

  Bracing myself against the cold, I set about the morning chores of checking on the horses, spreading their fodder and gathering the day’s water from a small spring. Along the way, I looked for signs of any unwanted guests. There wasn’t another human soul for miles around, but a series of paw prints at the edge of camp hinted at an occasional visitor’s passage during the night.

  “You are not getting up so early, are you?” Mae asked as I reentered the tent and buttoned the flap.

  She propped herself up on one elbow and hugged the buffalo skin blanket around her.

  “Just getting some water.” I set the bucket next to the small stove in the center of the tent and poked the fire back to life. “Shall I put on some coffee?”

  Mae sat all the way up, pulled the tresses of her hair over one shoulder and let the buffalo skin fall around her waist. “I think coffee can wait, don’t you?”

  I tried to catch my breath as I looked at her in wonder, taking in each curve and contour. She must have mistaken my silence as hesitation. To give unneeded encouragement, she folded open the blanket and beckoned me to her.

  “Yes,” I finally said. “Coffee can wait.”

  By the time we were ready for breakfast, the day shone brightly through the tent walls. I built up the fire and put on coffee while Mae prepared a breakfast of venison, porridge and dried berries. We took our time eating, savoring each bite and each moment. Then we lingered over coffee and tea. Mae sat with her feet tucked under her, draped in one of my green flannel shirts. Neither of us spoke the words, but we both knew our getaway must soon be over, and we’d have to rejoin the world.