by Julie Lawson
“No, he wasn’t! You wouldn’t say that if—”
“Now, now, don’t get yourself excited.” Clucking her tongue, Mrs. Jenkins picked up the tray and flitted from the room.
Sometime later, Jasmine appeared in the kitchen. “Could I please have my clothes?” she asked.
“If you mean them filthy coolie rags, certainly not,” Mrs. Jenkins said indignantly. “Whatever you was doin’ in that get-up is none of my business, though I am mighty curious. But come on, I got somethin’ real nice for you to wear.”
She ushered Jasmine back to the bedroom, opened a dresser drawer and handed her a petticoat and a pair of bloomers. Then she reached into the wardrobe and took out a pale blue dress, flecked with pink flowers. “This belonged to my daughter when she was about your age.”
Jasmine ignored the dress. “You’ve been really nice and I appreciate it, but I need my own clothes. And what happened to my bag? The cotton bag on the bamboo pole?”
“There wasn’t no bag. You know, last night you was ramblin’ somethin’ strange. Maybe your head still ain’t right. You was hit by an awful big rock.” She nodded with satisfaction. “That could explain things. You still ain’t quite yourself.”
“I just need my clothes!”
“Put these on for now.” Before Jasmine could protest further, the woman had whisked away.
Well, at least I’ll get this thing off, she thought as she threw the scratchy nightgown over her head. She slipped on the bloomers and petticoat, then the dress.
As she was fastening it up, Mrs. Jenkins returned with a pair of high buttoned boots. “Try these on.” She smiled as Jasmine pulled on the tight-fitting boots. “My, don’t you look a picture. Wouldn’t know you’re the same girl Harvey brought in.”
“I’m not,” Jasmine mumbled.
“Oh, go on with you. Now tomorrow, the doctor’s takin’ the sternwheeler to Victoria and he’s agreed to take you with him.”
Jasmine looked up sharply. “But—”
“No buts, now,” Mrs. Jenkins said with a wave of her hands. “It’s all arranged. The doctor’s even payin’ your way. Now I’ve got an errand for you. If you’re feelin’ up to it?”
Jasmine nodded. If Mrs. Jenkins gave her an errand in town, maybe she’d learn what happened to Keung.
“You can go to the grocer’s, then help with supper. Water in that jug should still be warm enough for washin’, and the outhouse is out back. I’ll be in the kitchen if you need me.
She spotted it on her way back from the outhouse—a dark pile stashed behind the woodshed. Pants, jacket, shoes, hat—even her underwear and shirt, with the five dollar bill still tucked inside the pocket. Everything was there, except for the bag.
Gathering up the bundle, she crept past the kitchen, along the hall and into the bedroom. She poured water into the basin, washed the clothes as best she could, then hung them in the wardrobe to dry. She was throwing the dirty water out the window when Mrs. Jenkins stepped in. “Thought I heard you. Had a good wash, did you?”
“Yes, thanks,” she said with a pleased grin.
Mrs. Jenkins handed her a coin. “If you’ll fetch me some fresh eggs from McKay’s we’ll be all set. He’s down the hill, on the corner.”
“But this is only twenty-five cents.”
“Go on with you, girl. Two bits is more’n enough for a dozen eggs. Just make sure you don’t go all the ways into town. It’s much too rowdy for a girl on her own.”
Chapter 15
One dozen eggs. Pretty basic, Jasmine thought as she tripped past McKay’s. She had no intention of going to the main part of town, only to the Chinese part. She could just as easily get eggs there. And information.
But she hadn’t anticipated the stares. Eyes followed her down the street, men stopped in their tracks to gape at her. A young white girl, alone, in Chinatown. So much for the invisible stranger. Never before had she felt so conspicuous. It’s this stupid dress, she thought angrily. Dragging down her confidence. Waving her out like a banner.
Yet she’d always taken pride in being different, in being uniquely herself. So. She hitched up the skirt, straightened her shoulders and carried on, ignoring the stares. But now her knee was starting to hurt. Great, she muttered as she limped along. Past the restaurant where she and Keung had eaten, past a laundry, past a—There. A general store.
Perfect. She could buy boots as well as eggs. She crossed the small verandah and entered the wooden building. Long counters extended along each side, with shelves reaching to the ceiling. The right side held groceries, the left side dry goods and hardware, boots and shoes. A small shelf held an altar with sticks of burning incense. At the back, a group of men stood chatting around a large wood stove.
Boldly, she stepped up to the counter. “I’m wondering if you know anything about the explosion yesterday, or if you’ve seen a Chinese boy, about my age, whose name is Chan Tai Keung. And I’d like some eggs, please. And a pair of boots, for me.”
A sudden silence crushed in around her. The men by the stove gawked. The clerk stared, bewildered. When she held out the blue five dollar bill with Queen Elizabeth in the corner, he shook his head firmly and pointed to the door. Undeterred, Jasmine walked over to the boots and picked up a pair. “These look sturdy enough. Do you have my—”
Abruptly, she stopped. She’d spoken in English. The clerk was spilling out a Chinese dialect but she could not understand a single word.
With burning cheeks she scuttled out of the store, the bill crumpled in her hand. Stupid! Of course they wouldn’t think this was real money. But why couldn’t she speak their language?
Her throat swelled with tears of humiliation and frustration. Stupid! And what about Keung? How could she ever find him if she’d lost the language? What a mess! And she still didn’t have the wretched eggs.
She limped off to McKay’s, wincing at the pain in her knee, cursing the ridiculous skirt and the high boots that pinched her toes. Her head throbbed with every step.
“And where might you be from?” Mr. McKay asked as he handed her the eggs.
She turned away, flustered. Everything was in such a muddle she hardly knew anymore. And she certainly didn’t want to talk about it. In her eagerness to leave, she moved too quickly, tripped over the skirt and fell to the floor.
As the grocer was helping her up, a thought struck her. “Maybe it’s the—Of course!” she exclaimed. “It’s something to do with the clothes!” She grinned at the astonished Mr. McKay and hurried out the door.
“Now there be a strange one,” he said, watching her stumble up the hill. “But at least she didn’t break the eggs.”
Harvey Jenkins finished carving the roast and turned to the newspaper while his wife heaped mounds of string beans, carrots and mashed potatoes on the plates. “Here in British Columbia along the line of the railway,” he read, “the China workmen are fast disappearing under the ground.” He put down the Yale Sentinel and dove into his dinner. “In just one week, six died outa twenty-eight down below Emory,” he said in a booming voice. “That’s almost one outa four.”
Mrs. Jenkins clucked her tongue. “More’n that died of scurvy, right here in Yale. ’Member, Harvey? We was so scared it was smallpox.” She tucked into her food. “C’mon girl, eat. That’s fresh venison. And them vegetables are from our own garden.”
Jasmine forced down a few mouthfuls.
“Y’know,” Mr. Jenkins said, “Coolies have a funny attitude t’wards death. When one of ’em gets sick with scurvy, the others just let him be. Lose interest altogether.”
“A friend of mine picked up a deserted coolie once,” said Mrs. Jenkins. “Found him by the side of the road, took him into her own home and nursed him back to health. Can you imagine? Anyways, when he was better she took him back to camp. But the coolies thought he was a ghost, and Lord, did they ever high-tail it outa there!” She laughed heartily and helped herself to more gravy. “Took ’em some time before they believed he was really alive.”
“Well then, it’s a wonder they’re still around.” Mr. Jenkins wiped his bristly moustache and loaded his plate with more food. “There ain’t hardly no stretch of this canyon hasn’t seen a Chinese death of one kind or other.”
He paused long enough to wolf down his second helping. “But one thing you gotta admit. They sure can work. Listen to this.” He picked up the newspaper and read: “In July, 1882 without a horse or can or steam 1031 Chinese using only picks, shovels, drills and wheelbarrows excavated 88,147 yards of earth, 10,081 yards of loose rock and 16,462 yards of solid rock. These men landed in Victoria three months before and had to be taught how to hold a shovel and strike a drill, some of them ascending cliffs 200 feet high with the aid of ropes to reach their work, clinging to rocks with foaming rivers beneath.” He put down the paper, gave his moustache a tug. “Better them than me, that’s all I can say.”
“Enough of this talk, now,” Mrs. Jenkins said. “Lord, girl, you eat like a grasshopper. What’s your favourite food in Victoria? Surely you eat more ’n this.”
“I love lasagne,” Jasmine said. “And raspberry mousse for dessert.”
The Jenkins raised their eyebrows. “Ain’t never heard of that,” Mr. Jenkins said. “Mind you, we got plenty of moose. Never seen no raspberry moose, though. Now, that would be a sight.”
“You’ll eat some of my dessert, won’t you?” Mrs. Jenkins asked. “Don’t know nothin’ about your mousse, but the most healthy dessert that can be placed on the table is a baked apple. The Sentinel itself said so.”
“Hogwash,” Mr. Jenkins bellowed as he poured custard over the steaming apple. “Forget the Sentinel and go back to makin’ pies.”
Mrs. Jenkins ignored her husband. “You must be awful excited about headin’ home tomorrow. Your aunt’ll be tickled pink But ain’t it a shame you’ll miss the Skuzzy.That’s gonna be somethin’ to see.”
“Yessir,” Mr. Jenkins agreed. “Onderdonk’s gonna get a steamboat through Hell’s Gate if it kills him.”
“Who’s Onderdonk?” Jasmine asked.
“Why, he’s the head fella ’round here, the one that’s buildin’ the railroad through the canyon. He’s the one brought all them Chinese to do it.”
“Hell’s Gate...is it far from here?”
“About 20 miles, isn’t it Harvey? But tell us, Jasmine. Tell us all about Victoria.” Mrs. Jenkins leaned forward eagerly.
Jasmine pushed the unfinished apple to another spot on her plate. Which one? she wondered. The Victoria now, or later? “Well,” she began, “my aunt lives in a condominium on the waterfront, on the ninth floor. At night I can see the Parliament Buildings all lit up, and the Empress Hotel— that’s a famous CPR hotel. It’s built on mudflats and a bay that got filled in a long time ago. I mean, a few years from now. Right now there’s...”
Her voice trailed off. She twisted a strand of hair, every bit as confused as the Jenkins. How to explain it? Better stick to her own time. “I’m staying with my aunt ’cause Dad flew to China last week in a 747, a big jet. I’m going to meet him there. It’s a long flight though, thirteen hours— and you lose a day, so if I leave on a Monday, I get to China on Wednesday. Tuesday’s just gone. But you get an extra day when you come back to the West.”
The Jenkins stared at her, dumbfounded.
“I don’t understand it either,” she said. “Time and travel, I mean.”
“Poor dear child.” Mrs. Jenkins’ hands fluttered over to Jasmine and stroked her head. “You have been hurt in that explosion. Such talk, such foolishness. Imagine, anyone flying to China.”
“It’s true. When I get back I’ll send you a postcard of a 747 and one of the Empress so you’ll—” No she wouldn’t. How could she? By the time she got back, in that time, the Jenkins would be gone.
“Oh, just send a postcard of the Birdcages. That would be nice, just to let us know you’ve arrived home safely.”
“Thank you,” Jasmine said quietly. “For dinner, and taking me in. I’m fine now, really. I’ll be alright.”
It was dark when she finally went to her room. Automatically, she reached for the light switch. Then remembered. She lit the oil lamp and carefully turned down the wick. In the glow of lamplight she put on the coolie clothes. So what if they still smelled of powder and smoke. They were clean, they were dry, and they clung to her like an old friend. She braided her hair and tied it with a leather thong. Now she was ready. All she needed was a few hours sleep.
Sometime later she was wakened by a faint, scratching sound, like leaves brushing against the window pane. Scrrritch. But it wasn’t leaves. A chilling fright crept into her. What was it? The fingernails of Blue-Scar Wong? Claws, scraping down the glass? Her heart beat faster. She stole to the window, pushed the curtains aside.
A shape spun out of the moonlight, luminous and white. Its yellow eyes pierced deep inside her. A huge paw stretched towards her. Then froze. She felt its power in the rippling of muscles beneath the skin. Felt its magic. Stay, she breathed. Tell me where he is.
The tiger threw back its head and roared. Through the yard, through the town, through the canyon—the sound echoing from crag to crag, from tunnel to tunnel, from camp to camp, like the long roll of thunder.
As the echoes died, the tiger drifted away until its shape was nothing more than a fading dream. But its message was clear. The white jade tiger was awake, and waiting to be found.
Jasmine was up before daybreak. She opened the window, swung over the sill, and dropped the short distance to the ground. She stole through the garden, unlatched the gate and shut it behind her. Then she flew down the hill, her dark clothes blending with the shadows, her heart pounding with excitement. When she reached the tracks she turned and followed the rails out of Yale, north towards Hell’s Gate.
It wasn’t long before her exhilaration gave way to more practical concerns. She still needed boots. And what happened to her bag? What would she do at night without the quilt? What would she do about food? Her money was useless. Would she have to scrounge through garbage? Or start begging?
Her worries were interrupted by voices coming from behind. A gang of Chinese coolies—and this time, she could understand. “Did you hear about the explosion?” she asked. “A couple of days ago?”
“Oh yes,” they replied. “Rocks flying everywhere. Many were killed.” But no, they hadn’t heard of anyone buried on the road.
“Where are you going now?” The coolies were loaded down with all their belongings, provisions and camp equipment.
“To another camp, on the other side of the Big Tunnel,”
“Is that near Hell’s Gate?”
“Between Hell’s Gate and Spuzzum. Lots of people going there today. All the way from Yale, to see a boat go through the rapids.” They shook their heads and laughed. “A boat through Hell’s Gate? A crazy idea! Impossible!”
Before long, Jasmine had outpaced the coolies and left them far behind. Gradually, the sky grew lighter. Sunlight streaked along the rails, turning the steel into shiny metallic threads.
A ringing bell and a rattling over the newly-laid track broke the morning stillness. Round the bend it came, a locomotive pushing five flat cars loaded with men, women, and children polished up in their Sunday best.
“Hey John!” one youth shouted. “We’re off to see the Skuzzy.Wanna ride? Toss up a pigtail and we’ll haul....”
Jasmine lost his words as the train plunged into a tunnel. Skuzzy.She remembered. The boat that was going through Hell’s Gate.
The ragged mouth of the tunnel gaped open, waiting to swallow her in. She gulped. Just do it, her inner voice urged. You’ve already been through three this morning. So what if this is the longest? So what if it’s the darkest? She tried to ignore the clammy feel of the air, the weight of the mountain pressing in on her, the steady drip, drip of water falling from the jagged rock above her head. Come on. One st
ep at a time, towards the light. Finally, she was back in the sunshine.
Mile after mile she trudged. Stopping at streams to drink icy water and splash it on her face. Through the Big Tunnel, three times as long as any of the others. Over trestles, spanning creeks and gullies. Stopping for blackberries to ease the pangs of hunger. At least her knee wasn’t aching.
After braving three more tunnels, she stumbled into an excited crowd of people stretched out along the riverbank, high above the Fraser. Cautiously, she stepped to the edge, looked down, and gasped.
This was it, the place from her dream. Déjà vu—the river raging over ledges of rock, squeezing between twin towers of granite; the narrow opening, boiling with spray... If she squinted her eyes, stared hard, maybe the image of Bright Jade would appear. If she—
“Welcome to Hell’s Gate, John. Stick around, you might see history made.”
Jasmine turned to the stout, bushy-haired man beside her. “See that?” He pointed to a steamboat struggling in the rapids. The rush of water was so great the boat was smashed against one side then thrown with a grinding crash against the other. “That’s the Skuzzy.They’re gonna move her up through Hell’s Gate, far as Lytton. Hare-brained scheme of Mr. Onderdonk, the railroad contractor. But I guess you know all about him.”
Jasmine wasn’t sure whether the man knew if she could understand or not. It didn’t seem to matter, for after taking a long draw on his pipe he continued. “127 feet long, she is. 250 tons. Launched in May by Mrs. Onderdonk herself. First skipper that’s asked to bring her through says no. So another skipper’s found and by this time, the river’s risin’ higher and higher. Spring flow, you see. Well this fella tries and tries, but the river wins every time. Finally, he gives up. So what does Onderdonk do? Finds some more fools to try again. One of these skippers has actually taken a boat over the falls on the Snake River, down in Oregon.”
He paused to blow a trail of smoke rings. “Onderdonk must think it’s gonna work this time. Why else would he bring all these folks up special to watch the performance? I dunno,” he said. “Don’t hold your breath on this one, John,” He sauntered off, sucking on his pipe and muttering to himself.