—Seventy-six, seventy-seven . . . Perfect! Seventy-eight.
Autumn watched him with a look of wonder, as if surprised to see Lu Beiping make these nimble, practiced motions.
—Soon there’ll be more than that, Lu Beiping said with a hint of pride. At least two of the cows are pregnant. The miracle of life, eh? Before long I’ll be looking after a whole new generation of mooing youngsters.
Autumn said nothing, and for a moment his expression darkened.
The hut smelled of damp air and sweat, of new thatch and the longstanding reek of his boots. Lu Beiping lit the lamp, glanced back and saw Autumn still standing outside, the same look of melancholy on his face that he’d worn at dinner up in the hollow. He called to Autumn, but the man didn’t move. Lu Beiping turned and fished hurriedly in his bag, found the pouch of pills he’d brought with him into the mountains. Crap, there was no quinine left—after moving to his jungle camp, he’d been so scared of catching that dreadful tropical disease that he’d swallowed a pill every night, not even knowing whether it could be taken prophylactically. Now he had nothing left but piddling things he’d loaded up on at the clinic, Silverwing Detoxifiers and Blue Licorice Extract and such. He grabbed the Silverwing bottle, handed it to Autumn.
—Here, this might help, till I can get some better stuff.
He turned and searched the hut for something fun to give Smudge, reached hesitantly for his harmonica. But when he looked back Autumn had slipped away without a sound.
He ran out, saw Autumn’s shadow vanish into the trees on the far side of the creek, leaving nothing but moonlight and murmuring water. Another strange one, Lu Beiping thought.
Chapter 4
At the Water’s Edge
In the mountains, nobody counts the passing days. So if it hadn’t been for Kambugger’s unexpected visit, Jade wouldn’t have known it was an important day for her, and been reminded of her own sorrow.
He’d come for the leaf money. The first question out of his mouth after Wildweed quit barking was this:
—Does he know?
—He? Who’s he?
Jade played stupid, cursing the man silently. Filthy cur. There’s nothing he’d be ashamed to take a sniff at.
—That Canton pup they put in my place. Four-eyed city pup, got ghost-married and sent up here to mind the cattle. You seen him?
—Excuse me?
Jade raised her eyebrows, laid aside the shirt she’d been washing. Kambugger waved the bills she’d just handed him.
—You know damn well what I’m talking about, Jade.
—How would I know what he knows? Jade said, whipping a pair of patched waistcloths on the rocks. I don’t know anything but what Smudge told me, which is that his feet stink, and that he’s the new cowherd.
—Heh, his feet stink, that they do.
Kambugger nodded as he slipped the money into his pocket.
—Well, if he doesn’t know anything, I don’t know anything either. As long as he’s got no dirt on me, all’s well. So long, Jade.
Jade watched from a distance as he waded into the creek, his gaunt, stooped figure looking like a little brown shrimp. That man is just a pile of trifles and gossip, Jade thought. For him, everything’s dirt. To think that there are some people who make their way in the world like that, collecting dirt on other folks.
—Hey, Kambugger! she called. Wash your mouth out before you come talk to me next time. Don’t forget, I’ve got some dirt on you!
—Wash my mouth out? the old man said, tossing an arm dismissively and kicking at the water. Lucky thing it’s Midsummer, I can wash it right here in the creek, rinse the evil spirits out of it, get it extra clean. Midsummer’s Day, they do say the waters have that power.
He looked back and leered at her.
—Maybe you should tell Smudge to tell that stinky boy to take a Midsummer bath too.
He slipped into the lemongrass and was gone. Jade felt weak all of a sudden and sat down heavily on the bank.
That’s right. Midsummer. Today’s Midsummer. Smudge’s pa’s day. And Smudge still in bed with the fits, shivering and twitching.
On Midsummer, go down and bathe in the water, never go up into the mountains. Climb the mountain on Midsummer and you’ll wake the snake air. That’s what Kingfisher always said. Like in the singshow, Tale of the White Serpent—wasn’t it on Midsummer that the young scholar woke the white lady’s snake air, so a whole storm of spirits came out to make trouble? Smudge’s pa didn’t believe in powers, he went up the mountain to log on Midsummer, against their warnings. And then . . . No wonder the men had washed themselves in the creek first thing today, then sat all day under the lychee tree smoking and sawing instead of hauling in the timber they’d felled yesterday. If Smudge’s pa were here, he’d be wrapping rice dumplings right now. Rice dumplings with salt water and rock sugar, with pork and sweetpaste, with dates and lotus butter, every flavor and color you could think of . . . No more. When Horn went, so did the rice dumplings. She’d heard that people here in the Hainan hills didn’t mark Midsummer; Midsummer was a water holiday. But her people were water people, she was born and raised by the water, and it was down by the water that she met Horn.
Jade rose and stumped over to the tree, laid a slap on Kingfisher’s bare back.
—You devils. Why didn’t you tell me it was Midsummer?
Kingfisher glanced up at her, grinning mischievously.
—Keep that up, Jade, slap me again. It’s been a long while since you’ve laid such a kind hand on me. Give me a thump down here, will you?
He squirmed his big naked body. Stump, up on the frame, also naked, laughed.
—Mercy, Sis! On good days we’re glad to share your sweets, but on ill we’ll leave you be. Spittle in the eye dries swiftly, Princess, but true love’ll nay ever deplete! Still thy weeping, tear not thine hair . . .
Stump launched into the crooning recitative from The Emperor’s Daughter. Jade turned to leave, not in the mood to banter with the men.
—Where’s Autumn? she called back. Where’s he off lazing at?
—Soon as we finished stacking boards he scampered up into the high valley to study that tombstone or whatever it is, Kingfisher said as he yanked on the saw. I think he’s aiming to become an archaeologist. I always said, your brother friend won’t ever be content with what’s served at the driftfolk table.
Jade went briskly toward the smaller of the two cabins. As she walked in, Tick and Roach, who’d just woken up, ran to her clamoring:
—Auntie, Auntie! What’s wrong with Smudge? He’s . . .
Jade rushed to the bedside and drew Smudge into her arms. For days he’d been burning up with fever, his face flushed, his mouth foaming, his limbs twitching. She brought over some herb broth, pried open his clenched teeth, and fed him a few spoonfuls, calling his name softly. Hot tears ran down her cheeks. She laid him down, reached under the mat for some incense sticks, lit them. With the smoldering sticks clasped in her hands she knelt before Horn’s memorial tablet, closed her eyes, and murmured to his soul in the darkness:
—Horn, brother. I know it’s your day. Please don’t call Smudge to you now. I won’t let you take him. Please, please, brother, show me a sign, show me you’re listening . . .
Midsummer—it was no wonder the sun was so hot that day. They said that on Midsummer, with the sun highest in the sky, shadow was at low ebb, and light ruled all. He must have chosen this day to go, she thought. He was that kind of a man, big, strong, and fiery-tempered, a straight-hearted, honorable man. He couldn’t bear the awful things they’d said about him, the awful things they’d accused him of, back when he’d been chief quarryman at Ho Chong and the head family had hounded him out in the name of Purification. The struggle meeting had turned into a flat-out clan feud; he’d hit people, hurt people, then fled with his brothers and took to the river. They’d drifted fo
r years, living by hook and by crook, roaming all the way from the Hundred Hills in Guangxi to Five Finger Mountain in Hainan, to the Mo-siu Mountains, to Mudkettle Mountain. Some had turned back, unable to bear the hardship. Some had been caught and thrown in jail, others had risen and prospered, become foremen and Secretaries. Once I’ve stuck my head out, I’m not sticking it back, Horn said. I’ll keep drifting till there’s no place left to drift to. They were boarding the ferry at Kwun-chow Crossing when he saw her, come out walking by the water to escape the company of her village sisters, wearing trouble on her brow. He said: Come drifting with us. We need a woman. She studied him for a long moment, and he said again: Come, we need a woman. That bold, honest look and those bold, honest words—we need a woman—were what made her get on that ferryboat. Horn was the third man in her life, but it was he who turned her into a woman. Driftfolk need a woman like a tree needs its taproot, he’d always said. Horn had cleft her stony soil, seeded her with Smudge; she’d roamed with him across half the province, never staying in one place for long, watching the band grow and split. It had been no easy thing, holding this crew together, making their way across the sea and into these hills. On Mudkettle Mountain they’d found some peace at last. And then . . .
For driftfolk, what mattered most was staying on luck’s fair side. Like most West Canton people they observed name laws: Children called parents Uncle and Auntie, spouses addressed one another as Brother and Sister, so as to mislead baleful spirits that might bring them harm. But lately, in secret, knowing Kingfisher would disapprove, she’d had Smudge call her Pa. That way, whenever her son called her name, he seemed to be addressing two people, one in light, the other in shadow.
She heard Smudge stir on the bed behind her.
—Pa, he groaned. Pa, I’m dying . . .
—Hush! Jade said. She gathered him into her arms and, bringing her lips close to his ear, whispered: Smudge, today’s the day your pa passed on, your other pa. I lit a stick for him, why don’t you say something to him.
—I’m dying, Smudge whimpered. I’m dying, Pa, I—
—Peh! I spit on that!
She slapped the bed frame and rose. Then without warning she began bellowing furiously:
—Hell on you for saying such a thing! I spit on that! Like you haven’t been enough afflicted. They say you crossed your own pa, and here you go crossing yourself! Heaven help us, Smudge. I spit on that! I spit on you, and I spit on that!
Like a madwoman she began spitting in every direction, thrusting a quivering finger at Smudge, at Tick, at Roach, at the spirits gathered in the surrounding darkness. The two little ones began to cry.
—I spit on that! she wailed in a crazed voice. I spit on you! I spit on all that! Gods in heaven . . .
Smudge, who had now awoken completely, sat up and stared at Jade with a blank look in his eyes.
—He’s here! Smudge squeaked. Pa! He’s here!
—What? Jade said, trembling. He’s here? Smudge, did you call him here? Your pa’s spirit? Quit scaring me, Smudge—
—Pa, he’s here! Stinkyfoot’s here!
Outside the dog gave a few loud yaps, then fell silent. Still half mad with desperation, Jade ran to the door, her thick braids falling out of their coils, and collided head-on with Lu Beiping.
—Smudge, it’s your pa! He’s come to save you!
She threw her arms around Lu Beiping and sank to her knees, tears streaming down her cheeks.
Lu Beiping, walking in on this bizarre scene, was caught completely off guard. Dazed, he glanced back and saw Kingfisher, Stump, and Autumn, who’d rushed over to see what was the matter, standing outside the door in varying degrees of nakedness, staring in dumb silence at him and Jade.
He freed himself gently from Jade’s embrace. Autumn came over and helped her into bed.
Slowly Jade came to her wits, saw Lu Beiping standing before her, then looked at the others. She clutched Smudge tight and began to sob.
—Is she okay? Lu Beiping mouthed to Autumn, then without waiting for a reply he fished the box of pills from his pocket and said: This is for Smudge. It’s Western medicine, special medicine for malaria.
All eyes in the room fell upon the paper box lying in his outheld palm.
—Four Eyes, Kingfisher said at last: You’re a saving rain. I wouldn’t wonder if Smudge’s pa himself called you here today. We cooked up every kind of cure we could think of, but this morning Smudge’s fever got so bad we just about busted our heads . . .
—Smudge, you’re a right lucky pup, Stump said. When you called out for Stinkyfoot I’ll bet you had no notion you were calling down your own savior. Better hie to it and make thanks.
Jade gave a teary laugh, tossed the hair out of her eyes, and pointed at Lu Beiping.
—Bullshit, it was me called him here. I got down on my knees and prayed the eights, and in he came. You think Horn’s spirit could bring about a thing like that?
Kingfisher, mid-drag on his pipe, gave a loud snort of laughter, expelling a mouthful of smoke.
—Did you hear that, Four Eyes? She said she prayed the eights for you. How many times have you prayed the eights for Horn, eh, Jade? How about me and Stump? I don’t believe you’d pray the ones and twos for us. Heh!
Laughter filled the room. Lu Beiping, his face serious, interrupted:
—You should give the medicine to Smudge now. It’s called quinine. Give him one pill three times a day, morning, noon, and night. I should get going now. I left the animals grazing in the meadow down there, but I can’t leave them for long.
He stood up, repeated his instructions about the dosage to Autumn, tousled Smudge’s hair, then strode quickly out the door. Four pairs of amazed eyes watched him as he waded into the creek, hastening away without a backward glance.
—Well, bless me sideways! Stump said to Autumn. He looks a mite peeved. You’ve got an ounce or two of ink in you, did we say something unmeet?
—Why’d he run off so fast? Smudge piped up after swallowing his pill, grabbing Jade’s neck and scrambling up into her lap.
Kingfisher sucked gravely on his pipe for a long moment, then whacked its butt on the ground and bellowed:
—Lie down, Smudge! Why? On account of you, that’s why! Always for you! We’ve gone and riled up every spirit on this mountain once again, on account of you!
The cattle rumbled through the gap. (I felt like I’d just come back from a harrowing military campaign, Lu Beiping joked to Tsung.)
By this point he’d already vowed to himself never to visit the hollow again. Today had been an exception—for Smudge’s sake, for the sake of that packet of quinine he’d made a special trip back to camp to pick up.
Just two visits to the hollow had been enough to confirm Lu Beiping’s suspicion about the migrants’ unusual arrangement. Jade, the “den mother,” was a woman held in common. With the possible exception of Autumn, whom she regarded as her “little brother,” she was wife to the entire band—to three men, when Smudge’s father had been alive; now to two, or maybe two and a half. Autumn might not share her bed, but he probably kept no secrets from her. The three children—Smudge, Tick, and Roach—were all hers, by different fathers. Actually, this kind of family structure wasn’t unheard of among frontier migrants, for whom women were a scarce commodity, and in those days rumors of such polyamorous unions abounded in the Hainan highlands. But for Lu Beiping, a well-bred city boy whose father had played percussion in a Western-style symphony orchestra, such an anomaly, confronted in the flesh, seemed freakish beyond belief. From the first moment he set foot in the hollow, when he was greeted by the bloodthirsty snarls of the dog, he’d sensed some lurking aberration, and had the distinct feeling that Fate, which had grown quite fond of toying with him lately, was preparing to toss him from one absurdity into an even greater one. As if marrying a ghost hadn’t been enough, he’d now come face-to-face with a conjugal con
figuration that made his own seem conventional by comparison. Three naked men, a pipe-smoking woman, strange taboos and curious accents, a mother who made her son call her “Pa”—this was a real-life ghost marriage. He’d barely come to grips with the first absurdity and already this new one was bearing down on him, courting him with eager insistence, ready to draw him into its warm embrace.
No, absolutely not. He couldn’t rid himself of the first absurdity, but he’d do his best not to get tangled up in this one.
So, beginning the very next morning, he started herding the cattle in the opposite direction, back toward camp. From the third finger of Mudclaw Creek he drove them down the valley to the slopes surrounding the second finger, sometimes even to the first, back toward the shouts of the workers and the clangs of the work bell. But every familiar face he saw, every how-do-you-do he exchanged, was a reminder that if he wanted to escape from the second absurdity, he’d have no choice but to return to the first. Out of every stand of rubber trees the foreman might stride; in every whiff of burnt grass from the constant bush-clearings he might detect Han’s insidious presence; in every grassy draw where he might park his bottom he might find leftover scraps of red envelope paper, evidence that Mrs. Kau was busily preparing for her son’s upcoming nuptials. The cattle, munching grass, debated the mysteries of ghost marriage; the rustling leaves of the rubber trees whispered news of Fong and Fook’s budding Interpersonal Entanglement; with every breath, he thought of the Gaffer; with every step, he pictured Choi; at every turn, he glimpsed out of the corner of his eye a fluttering crimson banner announcing the launch of Operation Red Something or Other; and whenever he sneezed, he heard Chu’s voice prattling on about the latest “intel” circulating among the re-eds . . .
God, no. He was fed up with all that stuff; it made him sick to his stomach.
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