Stumbling down a sandy bank she followed the almost dry bed down to a junction with another trickling stream. Half a mile further on she heard the familiar cadence of voices like her own, smelled the pungent aroma of spices in the cooking pots and incense rising from the tong leaders’ tents as they knelt on their prayer mats and approached their ancestors on behalf of their people so far from home.
~*~
‘Your brother was here, but two moons have passed since he departed.’ Ah Fung stroked his beard with long thin fingers and examined Pearl’s face for reaction.
She knew she had betrayed her elation, quickly cut short by dismay, but kept her voice steady as she continued to question the old tong leader. They squatted together outside his tent, Ah Fung enjoying a pipe, with an occasional sip from a porcelain jar beside him. A lone gumtree spread its boughs overhead, where a party of sulphur-crested cockatoos squabbled and screeched in the wintry sunlight. Around them the ground steamed like a kettle after last night’s rain.
‘Is it in the mind of the venerable grandfather to tell this lowly woman where to seek Li Po?’ Pearl kept her gaze correctly averted and stared down at the creek banks, swarming with figures of all ages, size and description, digging, puddling in tin dishes, carting water buckets and wheel-barrows of dirt amidst the clacking of hundreds of cradles.
There were Englishmen, weedy products of Whitechapel slums alongside gentlemen’s sons; perky Irish next to brawny Scots; experienced Americans from the California fields rubbing shoulders with new chums who hardly knew one end of a pick from another, blistering their hands and exchanging news on the latest finds with ticket-of-leaves still pallid from prison. Chinese, Indian, African and Middle-Eastern were all represented in the melting pot of the rush, each man only as good as his word was found to be.
Thick yellow clay overlaid everything, smearing clothes, tools and tents, colouring the water to a sickly gamboge. Hillocks of discarded yellow soil pimpled the barren landscape, creating an ugly alien world for inhabitants who concentrated only on digging more holes, shifting more gravel in their endless search for gold.
The old man closed his eyes and puffed on his pipe. He said, ‘Once this land was green, the grass and trees rooted in rich black soil. Then men came to cut through the soil to find grey clay and red gravel. They dug further and found the yellow clay. Sometimes they worked down twenty feet to reach the thin layer of rich blue-brown clay that held the gold. They raped the earth, left it despoiled, then moved on to do the same elsewhere. Your brother is such a one.’
Pearl acknowledged the old man’s disapproval with a nod, and waited patiently for him to answer her question.
He continued, ‘I accompanied the men of my village, to be with them when they faced their struggles in a new and hostile land. They came because their families starved, and they send their gold back to China so that their wives and sons may be released from bondage to the rich men who paid the passage money. Your brother hoards his gold for himself, yet what he gains is never sufficient. He has been overcome by greed.’
Pearl bowed her head. She waited in a silence which extended until the old man sighed and gathered his creaking bones to stand up. She rose with him, knowing she was about to be dismissed.
‘Sister of Li Po, your spirit is as loyal and tenacious as a man’s. Seek your brother on the field called Ballarat.’
He entered his tent and closed the flap.
Ballarat! Another fifty-five miles to walk! Why could not Li-Po have chosen to go to the rich Bendigo diggings, just a little way to the north? Then, feeling she tempted fate with her ingratitude Pearl hastily amended her thoughts, giving appropriate thanks to any gods who might be listening.
With her last coins, she replenished her stock of food at a store where Asian customers were tolerated, then, with her bulging pack over her shoulder, she set off for the road to Ballarat. Along the way she saw trees signposted with misspelt private messages such as: ‘if This Meets the I of James Crakinton, He Will ear of His Frend Tomass fawke at mistre Snars Opposite The guvermint camp’. There were also placards shouting ‘No chains for free Englishmen’, a reference to the wave of rebellion against the licence fees swelling throughout the goldfields. Pearl mentally vowed to keep clear of the disturbances. The licensing police were known universally as bullies and blackmailers.
The weather stayed fine, although the nights were so cold she found it hard to sleep on a bed of boughs under one worn blanket. But the third day saw her stepping out the last few miles through a section of dense bush reminiscent of the Dark Forest near Five Mile Creek. Uneasy at the gloom and ominous stillness, she increased her pace, keeping to the middle of the track. Her apprehension was justified when three men sprang suddenly from between the trees and stood regarding her from beneath their wide-brimmed hats. They were dressed like most diggers in moleskin trousers and blue shirts with bandannas about their throats, but with the addition of pistols pointed at Pearl.
She turned to run, but one man had moved behind her. He lowered his pistol, saying contemptuously to his fellows, ‘It’s just a scurvy Mongol. He’ll have nothing worth the taking.’
Pearl slipped into her submissive slave persona, drooping in the dust of the track. Inwardly furious at the thought of losing her precious medical kit once more, she felt the first stirrings of fear at the expression in the eyes of the red-bearded man who had come up close to stare at her. They were mud-brown in colour, with a spark at the pupil, like the eyes of an unreliable animal.
‘I’ll cut off his pigtail for a souvenir.’ He drew a Bowie knife from his belt and with the other hand swept Pearl’s cap off onto the track. Before she could move, he had her by the plait, stretching it high, cruelly dangling her with the tips of her toes on the ground. Watching her face, he seemed angry when she didn’t plead for release, and gave a vicious jerk that wrenched a scream from her. A smile split the bearded features, revealing gapped and stained teeth. ‘Well, well. I thought you were a mite tiny, even for a Mongol. Lookee here, lads.’ The Bowie knife swept down, slitting through Pearl’s jacket, shirt and trousers, and a ruthless hand tore them aside, exposing her woman’s body.
Seeing Redbeard’s companion lick his lips, hearing the surprised grunt from the man behind her, Pearl knew what awaited her. But her fears centred on Redbeard. She’d seen his like before, and knew she’d be lucky to come out of this alive. Her thoughts flickered incoherently. Could she wrench free without losing her hair? Could she hope to escape all three men, even if the chance came to disable her captor with a kick? The pain in her neck and scalp was excruciating; her skin was slippery with sweat. She brought her arms up, flailing, trying to grasp the man’s wrist, but he held it too high above her head. She scrabbled, vainly, for her knife. The pieces of coat had fallen back from her shoulders, beyond her reach. Another tug tore at her scalp and warm blood trickled down her face. An agonised cry was wrung from her. ‘God, help me!’
‘Dear, oh dear. It’s a Christian,’ sneered Redbeard, releasing her so suddenly she overbalanced and fell – onto a rib she’d broken little more than a year ago in the shipwreck. She heard it snap as she hit a ridge in the track. Her teeth met on her tongue and blood filled her mouth. Dust rose in her nostrils as a breeze stirred, breaking the stillness.
The man behind moved her with his boot. ‘I don’t want no truck with no dirty Mongol. I say we leave her be and clear out. There’ll be better game along.’
Through a red haze of pain Pearl saw him pick up her pack and begin rummaging through it.
‘Clean or dirty, yellow or white, what’s the difference?’ asked the third man. ‘They’ve all got a hole in the right place.’
Redbeard sniggered. ‘You should know, Cato, out with the sheep all those years. Or didn’t you choose between ram and ewe, eh?’
‘Shut up, and let’s get on with it before someone else happens by.’
Half-senseless with the torment of her injuries, Pearl was dragged in amongst the trees and thrown down on
her side. Her eyes rolled up but she fought to remain conscious, desperate to get to her knife. She slid a hand under her body, feeling for cloth, too late. Her legs were thrust apart and Redbeard was upon her.
She’d been right about him. He liked the refinements of cruelty, and for the next few minutes he practised his brand of sadism, using knife tip and fingers to exact the maximum satisfaction, leaning back after each attack to enjoy the results as portrayed in her face. Agonised, Pearl abandoned her stoicism and screamed with abandon, knowing his malignancy would only increase if she did not. But all the while she clung onto her purpose, holding off the pain with an enormous effort of will and edging her left hand along the ground, feeling for the torn fabric of her jacket.
The breeze had become a wild wind tearing through the tree-tops above. She fixed her gaze on the branches madly thrashing against the darkening sky while leaves showered down on her upturned face like ragged confetti. Half-delirious, she felt the earth shake from a stronger blast. In her fancy the trees gripped the soil with their roots, hanging on grimly while smaller branches were torn from their crowns and whirled away, somersaulting, gyrating madly in time to some unheard devil’s orchestra. Her fingers closed on cloth and edged their way beneath.
‘Here, when’s it my turn?’ The man Cato stood over her, looking disgusted. ‘There won’t be nuthin’ left for me if you don’t finish.’
His companion, standing some distance away, shouted above the noise of the wind, ‘I don’t hold with killin’. It sets the traps on. Are you two comin’ or will I go on alone?’
A lull fell, and the earth seemed to take a breath. Redbeard’s voice broke the sudden silence. ‘What’re you after there?’ His hand descended, pinning Pearl’s wrist. The bones crunched and her fingers opened involuntarily to release the bit of fabric. The torn lining fell away to reveal a pair of gold earrings. Before her attacker could move, Cato bent and scooped up the glinting gold.
With a roar, Redbeard surged up onto his knees. ‘Give me that, you thieving swine. It’s mine.’ He teetered sideways, off-balance, as the other man stepped back.
It was all the time Pearl had, and all she needed. Her hand closed on the knife hilt. The gale struck again, blasting through the forest, drowning Pearl’s cry as she plunged the blade with all her strength into Redbeard’s belly. He gazed down in astonishment, his mouth a gaping hole in his beard. Pearl wrenched the blade across, and hot blood and intestines spilled out over her hands and body.
‘Bitch!’ he screamed. Two great hands met around Pearl’s throat and began to throttle her.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
‘I never seen anythin’ to equal it, not ever. And in a Christian country.’ The voice reached Pearl like an echo from a far canyon, reverberating, not quite clear, but with an undertone of outrage.
Another, slower voice answered, ‘Well it happened to a heathen din’t it?’
‘A woman, Tom. If she was heathen as the Cham of Tartary, what’s bin done to her is a disgrace to all men. Lucky for her we found that cap on the track and had a scout around.’
Pearl became aware of a jolting movement, racking her with each breath. It was almost unbearable. For a moment she lost track of the voices, then heard the first man again.
‘I reckon it was one o’them Vandemonians come over from Port Arthur to set up as a bushranger. The Geelong coach’s bin bailed up twice this month, the driver and a passenger shot the first time; and a man was robbed and left for dead on this stretch o’road only a week ago. Now this. Do you think she’ll hold out ‘til we get to the Chinee doctor over Golden Point? He’s her best bet, I reckon.’
The man named Tom must have expressed doubt, because his companion said vehemently, ‘Well, she won’t do a perish if I c’n help it. Come on, horse.’ A whip cracked smartly and the cart picked up speed. ‘And you, Tom Rudd, wantin’ to stop to bury the flamin’ mad dog what did it to her. I hope the dingos have ‘im for breakfast.’ The cart wheel hit a stone, and a spear of agony went through Pearl and she fainted.
~*~
She awoke to a stinging sensation as if she’d been attacked by a swarm of mosquitoes, from head to foot, and a pungent odour filled her nostrils. Above her lamplight flickered on canvas walls. The only sounds were external: distant shouts; the occasional shot; snatches of music accompanied by barking dogs. Her whole body flamed with pain, yet a strangely damped down agony, as if she were detached from it, feeling it at second hand. Her mind had gone mercifully blank. Turning her head she first noticed her arm, impaled with silver needles fine as filaments. Nearby, a thin, upright figure in blue blouse and trousers hovered, his slender fingers outstretched to twist two of the needles. The fresh pain was negligible, although she did wonder why this stranger inflicted it upon her.
‘What are you doing?’ She knew she’d spoken, although no sound emerged. When she tried again, without success, she decided her throat must be damaged.
An egg-shaped head, smooth and brown all over, and a face embellished with a stringy moustache and beard loomed over her. A voice said in Mandarin, ‘Lie quietly. Do not try to speak. You will recover if you obey my instructions. Here is a draught to ease pain and induce sleep. Drink.’
Pearl drank, and drifted off to sleep.
This time, when she awoke, sunlight filtered through the canvas, revealing it to be a large tent lined with chests and a small cupboard fitted with many drawers. In one corner a brazier threw off a pungent herbal odour. A bowl of sand set beneath a hanging silk scroll held several incense sticks with wisps of smoke rising. A carpet had been spread and on a pile of cushions the tall Chinese who had attended her sat cross-legged, working a pestle and mortar. He looked up when she turned her head.
‘I am Doctor Hsien Lo. Your throat has been injured, but not permanently, if you do not attempt to speak for another day. I will endeavour to supply answers to questions which will be in your mind.’ The high, twittery voice was strangely reassuring. She was in capable hands. She could afford to let go her vigilance.
But the moment she relaxed, memory swept back in, and she began to relive the scene in the forest. Sweat broke out on her forehead. A keening moan rose in her throat. She struggled to obliterate the all-too-vivid pictures with happier memories of her years in the mission on the Yantgse, and her mother... and immediately she saw Cato’s rough hand close over her mother’s gold earrings, heard Redbeard’s enraged shout. With a cry she flung her hand over her eyes, trying to blot out the horror.
An arm slipped under her neck to raise her and a chirping voice penetrated her nightmare, demanding that she listen. Enveloped by a soothing odour of herbs, she began to take in the words.
‘Know that serenity is the master of restlessness and an integral being is placid, never departing from the centre of his own being. The things of the world change constantly. There is a time for things to move ahead, and a following time for things to retreat; a time to withdraw internally, and a following time to expand. This is your time to withdraw, to centre your being and allow healing to take place.’
Needles pricked her flesh and a delicate pulsation began through her body. Calm enveloped her as the Doctor’s voice rose and fell in gentle cadence, the words sometimes familiar, sometimes imparting truths she thought she had always known yet not considered in relation to herself.
Had she been too busy struggling for life, for freedom, for a place of her own? Now, drifting, awake and yet not awake, and wonderfully at peace, she began to examine her life in depth, amazed to find how little it meant. Where was her goal? What was her purpose? Finding Li Po had been an excuse, she now saw. She had used it as a reason to escape the old pattern, without any plan beyond that moment of culmination. She had no path to follow. Had she really meant to hand over her future to a stranger, to abdicate her hard-won freedom and self-sufficiency?
Much later she noticed with amazement how her thoughts had completely turned away from her recent dreadful ordeal. In some way the agony of mind she’d expected to s
uffer had been pushed into the back of her consciousness, still there, yet diminished, leached of much of the terror and grief and overlain with a meditative calm.
During the following days she realised that the new fascination with her future had been fostered by Doctor Hsien Lo. His unusual treatments, his detailing of ancient Chinese medical lore allied to the teachings of Lao Tzu, interested her and she listened to him by the hour. When he treated other patients she followed his activities closely, and when he was absent he always left one of his servant assistants with her to explain the various contents of the herb chests and, as she soon realised, to give her a sense of security. The fear of being alone and vulnerable was the one thing she couldn’t yet deal with. In the meantime her body and mind healed.
The Doctor explained the rudiments of his profession: the fundamental substances, the most important of which was Qi, the life-force affecting the whole body, mind and spirit; the Yin organs deep within; and the more external organs, the Yang, and their functions. He discussed the origins of disharmony, the precipitating factors in illness, and the ways to examine signs and symptoms, plus the use of the needle therapy to tap in to the meridians or unseen channels that carry Qi, nourishment and strength throughout the body.
She learned how every Chinese physician must have a complete grasp of the meridian system and the three-hundred and sixty-five main points where these may be intercepted in order to rebalance disharmonies. Pearl watched her mentor insert needles with total confidence, saw the patient relieved of his toothache or liver pain by an insertion in some other part of the body.
Sometimes he burned a tiny portion of moxa, a herbal mix, sending heat into the pressure point to achieve his aim, pointing out how the intervention with moxa or needles can ‘reduce what is excessive, increase what is deficient, warm what is cold, cool what is hot, circulate what is stagnant, move what is congealed, stabilize what is reckless, raise what is falling and lower what is rising. And then, there is the use of herbs.’
A HAZARD OF HEARTS Page 26