The Golden Rat

by Don Wulffson

  “Over a year.”

  “Your ‘brother’?” said Linlin questioningly. “Who was your brother?”

  “His name was Po Sin. He died the first week there.”

  Linlin put a hand to her mouth. “I’m so sorry,” she said.

  “The guards beat him—and did other things.” Zhou spat. “Night after night. And then one night he didn’t come back from the guardhouse. In the morning, I was given a spade and told to bury my brother.”

  “How old was he?” asked Baoliu, clearing his throat.

  “Nine.” Zhou looked at them somberly. “There were eleven in my family. All of them died in the plague. Only my brother Po Sin and I survived. And somehow we managed to get by—for five years, until we were put in prison.

  “He died. He was murdered, and so was I. The rest of the time I was in that place, I was dead. The only thing I did was count the days—and fight when I had to. I didn’t have any friends in prison, and none outside—not until I met …” He grinned at Baoliu and gave him a good-natured shove. “Not until I met this crazy fool have I really had much to do with anybody.”

  “The two of you—how long have you been friends?” asked Linlin.

  Baoliu scratched his bristled scalp. “When was the fight with Chen Mingna?” he asked Zhou.

  “Couple of months ago, maybe longer.”

  “You met in a fight?” asked Linlin incredulously. “How do you meet in a fight?”

  “It isn’t easy,” said Baoliu, forcing a smile.

  “What was the fight about?”

  “A few monkey butts decided to give me a beating. Zhou stepped in and helped me out. Saved my sorry life.”

  “Why did they want to beat you up?”

  “It’s hard to explain,” said Baoliu, feeling his palms suddenly start to sweat. “They thought that I was a—” he began, stumbling over his words.

  “Is something wrong?”

  “No.”

  “If you don’t feel like telling me, it’s all right,” said Linlin. “Really.”

  “But I do want to tell you,” said Baoliu, looking from Zhou to Linlin. “I have to.”

  “You ‘have to’? What do you mean?”

  Baoliu took a deep breath, and his gaze met hers. “The rich boy—the one your father died in place of. Linlin, that’s me.”

  “WHAT?” LINLIN SAID, knitting her brow. “What are you talking about?”

  “It’s the truth,” said Baoliu. “I’m the one your father died in place of. I’m the rich boy.”

  “No, it can’t be,” she said, exhaling the words. She looked at Zhou. “Is this a joke?”

  “No,” said Zhou, “it isn’t.”

  Linlin sat back on her heels and hung her head. “I don’t believe it,” she said, staring down at her hands pressed against her lap. “I don’t!”

  “I’m so sorry,” said Baoliu.

  She looked up at him. “How could you do this to me?” she said, wiping at tears. “Especially you?”

  “I didn’t mean to hurt you, not in any way.”

  “It was all a lie, wasn’t it? All along. And it wasn’t any accident that we met, was it?”

  “No,” said Baoliu, shaking his head, and watching as a drunken man staggered out the back door of the gambling parlor.

  “That morning, when the two of you had that frog meat—and shared it with Grandfather and me—that was all a part of getting to me, wasn’t it?”

  “Yes.”

  “And all you are is a rich boy pretending to be poor!”

  “No,” said Baoliu. “I’m not pretending at all! I’m as poor as anybody. My father disowned me.”

  “But you still had money?”

  “No. None. And I didn’t have a friend, either, not until I met Zhou. And then I met you and your grandfather, Shen Pang. And things just happened. I wanted to tell you, but I didn’t know how.”

  “But what made you come to me in the first place?”

  “I had to.”

  “‘Had to’? Why? What for?”

  “I don’t know. Maybe just to tell you that I’m innocent, and that I’m not just some rich brat that got away with murder.” Baoliu opened his hands to her. “I was convicted of killing my father’s second wife. I didn’t, and I don’t feel guilty about any of that. But your father—that’s what bothers me. It’s him—he’s the one I feel like I killed.”

  “No, you didn’t,” said Linlin. “Your father did. My father worked for him—but you know that, don’t you?”

  “Yes.”

  “And what he did when my father was hurt—do you know that as well?”

  “Yes, I’m afraid I do,” said Baoliu, hanging his head.

  “If only he had helped my father after he was hurt. But he didn’t. He did nothing!”

  “I know.”

  “But still, you—” began Linlin, and then paused as a sudden loud cheering from inside the gambling parlor drowned out her voice. “You say your father disowned you. Why?”

  Baoliu opened his mouth to answer, and then looked up at several constables racing toward them down a slope.

  “They’re Jinwo constables, but they’re coming for us!” sputtered Zhou, getting to his feet.

  “The crowd—get into the crowd!” cried Linlin.

  Baoliu grabbed her arm. “This way!” he yelled, and then pushed her ahead of him through the back door of the gambling parlor. And then he and Zhou were scrambling after her through the place—knocking over a mahjong table, and then stumbling through a huddled group of gamblers—cards and money flying from their hands. He saw Linlin disappear out the front entrance and then tripped over Zhou and fell sprawling with him into a dice game.

  “What do you think you’re doing?” snarled a man, pushing Baoliu off him.

  “Idiot!” hissed another.

  “Come on!” Baoliu yelled, trying to pull Zhou to his feet. And then he let go and backed away as a half-dozen constables poured in through both doors.

  “Damn!” cursed Zhou, getting to his knees and then putting his hands together in front of him. “Don’t fight them,” he told Baoliu as constables surrounded them.

  Baoliu looked up at the point of a dagger, and extended his hands.

  A constable in hardened-leather armor pushed his way into the gambling parlor, gawking patrons making way for him.

  “These the ones you were looking for?” a Jinwo constable asked the one from Yongjia, his gaze on half-closed lumps of flesh where the man’s nose should have been.

  “Where’s the girl?”

  “We already have men looking for her. She went in the back of this place and out the front, into the crowd. We’ll find her.”

  “On orders from the magistrate, she’s to be… taken care of. And these two….” He looked at Baoliu and Zhou, sitting with their hands bound—and then grinned broadly.

  “You!” he hissed and grabbed Baoliu by the collar. “You remember me? You remember what I told you would happen if you was lying to me?” He huffed through the hole in his face. “Told you you’d die, didn’t I?” He gloated, patting Baoliu’s cheek with a leather-gloved hand. “Well, you’re going to die, boy!”

  Baoliu looked at Zhou, and then hung his head.

  “What do you want done with them?” asked a Jinwo constable.

  “These two are to be returned to Yongjia,” he said, using Baoliu’s head to push himself to his feet. “See to it.”

  13

  Baoliu and zhou spent the rest of the afternoon with drunks, thieves, and brawlers in a holding cell on the edge of the Pleasure Grounds. With the coming of night, lanterns were lit, hundreds of them, creating a world of shimmering blues, pinks, and greens.

  One by one, the others were released or taken to jail. Baoliu and Zhou were taken down to the harbor and put aboard a military ship and locked in the hold apart from each other, Baoliu in a tiny wooden cell, Zhou in a storage area. The ship, a supply vessel, got underway that night, arriving on the docks in Yongjia midafternoon of the followi
ng day. From there, the two were taken to Yongjia Prison.

  In shackles, guards herded them into a torch-lit corridor, their arrival triggering howls of derision from the prisoners. Their fingers laced around bars, they watched Baoliu and Zhou pass, taunting and laughing at them, and cursing the guards.

  “I hope you will be happy here.” A guard smiled, swinging open a cell door.

  Baoliu followed Zhou inside.

  The door slammed behind them; a key clicked in the lock, and then footsteps headed away, drowned out by a new round of outbursts from the prisoners.

  The cell was tiny, filthy, and reeked of urine. Decorated with graffiti, the walls glistened damply, and black mold grew in corners and crevices. Flies blanketed a wooden waste bucket, and overhead, rats traveled unseen through the rafters.

  Baoliu pulled himself up to look out the only window in the place—and saw the main square of Yongjia, far below.

  “Why did they bring us here?” he asked Zhou, dropping back to the floor. “It doesn’t make any sense. They could have locked us up in Jinwo, but instead they bring us back to Yongjia. Why?”

  “They want something,” said Zhou.

  Baoliu nodded. “Yeah, but what?”

  “That, I don’t know.”

  Baoliu gripped the barred door and looked across the corridor. From the cells across the way, a sullen gallery of faces gazed back at him. He turned to Zhou. “I’m so sorry for getting you into this.”

  “It’s not your fault.”

  “Isn’t it? You’ve stuck with me through everything. And because of it, this is where you end up.”

  “What about Linlin? Do you think she got away?” asked Zhou, changing the subject.

  “I hope so.” Baoliu picked at an itching sore between two fingers. “She’s smart; she’s tough.”

  “Smart? Yes. But not that tough, not as much as she pretends. And look what she’s up against.”

  “The stinking constables. And if they find her, they’ll kill her.”

  “And before that, they’ll do worse,” said Zhou.

  “A beautiful girl like Linlin—who would want to hurt someone like that?”

  “They would.”

  “It makes me sick to think about it.” Baoliu shook his head. “I’ve never known anyone like her.” He pursed his lips. “I just wish things had been different.”

  “She was in love with you.”

  “Maybe for a while. But not anymore. Not after what I told her.”

  “She doesn’t blame you. She blames your father.”

  Baoliu shrugged. “Whatever she thinks of me, it really doesn’t matter anymore, does it?” He looked around the cell. “All of that is over. All there is now is this.”

  “What’s going to happen to us?”

  “What’s to become of you, I don’t know,” said Baoliu. “I hope it’s nothing worse than slavery. I think that’s the best you can hope for, I’m sorry to say.”

  “How about you?” asked Zhou.

  “They’ll have my head. I’ve already been found guilty of whatever new crimes they decide to charge me with. And because that means I violated the laws of ka-di, I’ll be retried for a murder—one I’ve already been convicted of, and will be again. But for you, there’s still hope.” He frowned. “I only hope that luck will be with you.”

  “It will. And it will be with you, too,” said Zhou, the smile on his face betrayed by the look in his eyes.

  A SINGLE GUARD came for Baoliu that night. An older man—quiet, almost deferential—he led Baoliu from his cell and then up a spire of stairs and into a narrow vestibule. Ahead, gray light spilled from a doorway, and the aroma of incense suddenly filled the air.

  “In here, please,” said the guard, gesturing Baoliu ahead of him into the room.

  Baoliu recoiled.

  Writing at a lectern, the magistrate looked up. “Ah, welcome,” he said, an amused grin on his face. “How nice it is to see you again!”

  In chains, Baoliu walked to the bearded man, looking him in the eye.

  “May I offer you some refreshment? Tea, perhaps? Plum cakes?”

  “No, thank you.”

  “No?” Lizard eyes blinked. “Then allow me to proceed with the matter at hand,” he said, producing a scroll from the hidden world within the sleeves of his robe. “Allow me to proceed quickly to the heart of the matter, and not further intrude upon your undoubtedly already busy schedule.” A smile twitched on his lips. “You are in violation of the accord of ka-di, as I would assume you are aware. The pertinent provision,” he announced, and then read from the scroll: “… he shall be allowed to live, until such a time as he might, through misconduct or criminal endeavor, prove himself unworthy of this clemency; and revocation of these proceedings in this matter shall be undertaken.”

  The magistrate rested his hands on the lectern. “Do you understand what I have just read?”

  “Yes.”

  “Then you understand that you are to be retried on the charge of murdering your father’s wife—that is, of course, if you are found guilty of additional charges to be brought before the court.”

  “What are the charges?”

  “Attack upon a constable in the lawful performance of his duty; subversion; and abetting the flight of a fugitive.”

  “Of Shen Linlin?” asked Baoliu.

  “Indeed! How quick you are!”

  “What do you want from me?” asked Baoliu.

  The magistrate rested his chin on a forefinger. “Your confession to all charges.”

  “What? Why would I confess?”

  “It would make things easier for me.”

  “Make things easier for you?” Baoliu smiled crookedly. “And why would I want to do that?”

  “To allow you to die with a modicum of dignity.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Your comrade, your accomplice, Wanlun Zhou, will face similar charges, and like you, will undoubtedly be found guilty and most likely executed. I offer you the chance to save his life. For your confession, he will be set free.”

  “‘Set free’?” Baoliu swelled with relief. “And the charges dismissed?”

  The magistrate nodded. “Unless you attempt, at any time, including at your trial, to withdraw your confession. His life would then be forfeit.”

  “And the girl—Shen Linlin?” he asked hopefully. “Will you grant her the same? Has she been found? Is she alive?”

  “You test my patience!” hissed the magistrate, long fingernails drumming on the table. “Your confession? Will I have it—or shall I reconsider my offer?”

  Baoliu nodded. “You will have it.”

  WHEN BAOLIU WAS returned to the cell, it was empty, and the door ajar—and far down the corridor, lit yellow by torchlight, he could see a familiar figure being escorted from the prison.

  “Zhou!” he yelled.

  “Baoliu!” Zhou’s voice echoed back down the corridor. “What have you done? What have you done?”

  The heavy door at the end of the corridor opened. For a moment, Zhou was framed in a rectangle of light, and then he was gone.

  THE PRISONER IN the cell across from Baoliu had gone insane. He had ugly lumps on his forehead, and day after day told Baoliu, and anyone who would listen, that he had seashells growing out of his head. That was his punishment, he said, for killing his wife—though it was known his wife had come to visit him.

  The prisoner in the cell next to Baoliu’s seemed strangely content, and endlessly hummed a private medley of songs. The two prisoners to the other side of him told Baoliu they had been captured in the peasants’ revolt in Fuzhou the year before. They claimed imperial troops had killed more than ten thousand people, and had lost almost half that many of their own. They also said there would be a revolt in Yongjia soon if things did not change.

  Baoliu told his own story, without mention of the ka-di.

  Talking, scratching off the days on the wall, and hunting cockroaches—they were the only diversions. Like the others, Baol
iu kept a watch for roaches—driven by hate, hunger, and the pleasure of the hunt—he pounced on them whenever they scuttled out from gaps in the walls and floor, and crushed them with his heel or hammered them with the side of his fist. And then, like the others, he mixed the pasty remains into the evening meal—the only meal of the day—a half bowl of watery rice.

  Not eating the roaches, the others told Baoliu, would cause him to have sores on his skin.

  Though he did as they advised, a sore had already begun to grow on an ankle, and his skin itched infernally. Cuts and scratches didn’t heal. His hands and feet started looking puffy. And his bones ached from the cold and damp. He became listless. Day after day, he sat, waiting for whatever was to come, and wanting it to be over.

  When he woke one morning to his door squeaking open, he thought his trial had come.

  “You have a visitor,” said a young-looking guard as Hai Nan stepped tentatively into the cell.

  “You have five minutes,” said the guard, shutting the barred door on the two of them.

  “Baoliu?” In a frayed robe, Hai Nan stared down at him. “Baoliu, is that you?” he asked, his eyes traveling the cell, a hand to his nose against the stench.

  “What do you want?” asked Baoliu wearily, wondering at the tears in his brother’s eyes.

  “What has happened to you?” exclaimed Hai Nan, kneeling down beside him. “Are you all right? What have they done to you?”

  “How did you find me?”

  “Your friend—the boy Zhou—he found us. He told us what happened to you and where you were.”

  “Zhou? He’s all right?”

  “Yes. And so’s the girl.”

  “Linlin? She’s alive?” exclaimed Baoliu.

  “She traveled the back roads from Jinwo, and got here three days ago. She was looking for you, and came to us. She and I—and Father—have been talking.”

  “She’s met Father?”

  “At first she was very cold to us. She thought Father had just turned his back on her father when he burned his hands. But that’s not quite what happened. There was a lot she didn’t know.”

  “And what’s that?”

  “Shen Manfong fought with Father about getting his job back.”