God of Luck (16 page)

IN THE SLEEPING shed, I drop my purchases, myself onto my bed. At each thump, there’s a puff of guano dust flecked with fleas. Spiders and small lizards that have been hiding under my blanket scurry out, disappear.

From the bed to my left, Ah Kam’s arm shoots over and snags my book. “You’ve not stolen Chufat’s accounts have you?” Riffling the pages, he sees they’re blank, jeers, “I didn’t think you were the daring type.” He eyes the brush, inkstick, and inkstone. “What are you going to write? Chufat’s story? You’ve certainly listened to him often enough to have it memorized.”

Men in nearby beds snort, guffaw.

“Nah. He’s going to write to our devil-king.”

“What? Ask for better food?”

“Reduced loads?”

“Freedom! He’s going to petition for our freedom.”

“Wah, our very own Fook Sing Gung.”

Their banter underscores my defeat, and I curl up like a baby, the baby Bo See and I might have made together but didn’t.

NIGHT AFTER NIGHT, whether I am staring into darkness or have stumbled at last into thin, fitful sleep, my arms sweep the bedmat for Ah Lung—only to embrace air.

Neither of us had been in a hurry to share our bed with a baby, to give up the freedom of reaching for each other whenever our blood thickened with desire. Now, lying alone, I mourn the seed we used to deliberately waste; my fingers trace the shapes of babies on my belly.

Finally, I quit bed and sleeping room for the wormhouse. On the shelves are dozens of small squares of paper, each with five-hundred eggs the size of fly specks. Naturally sticky, the eggs hold fast to the papers, and I bind these eggsheets to my chest and belly and back with a long cloth.

Encased in eggsheets, I am careful not to splash while drawing water from the village well. I try not to bend so I won’t crumple the paper. I will myself not to hurry despite the whispers of women and girls waiting their turns.

“Bo See’s been looking like a ghost. Now she’s turned stiff as wood.”

“Didn’t I say she’d lose her self-control and go mad from grief?”

“You weren’t the only one to make that prediction.”

“And no wonder! Have you ever heard of a pig returning?”

“I’ll wager Ah Lung is dead.”

“I blame Bo See. Remember how she tumbled out of her bridal sedan?”

“You think
that
is the reason for the Wongs’ misfortune?”

“Yeah.”

“Maybe. Don’t you pity Bo See anyway?”

“Because she’s so young a widow?”

“A
childless
widow.”

“She could take a child to raise as her own.”

“Don’t be absurd! How can a madwoman be a mother?”

WHILE WAITING FOR their cargo, those on board the guano ships must endure the same relentless stink and heat we do. During loading, they’re swathed in yellow clouds of dust as thick and choking as the worst we suffer. Not surprisingly, the moment the last shovelful is in, the hatches battened down, the decks washed clean, the sailors on the lucky ship hoist their national flag, then light torches.

Watching them, listening to the sailors cheer and the crews on the other vessels respond in kind, I always erupt in envy. Even after we’re locked in for the night, I cannot stop myself from staring through the gaps between planks in the wall facing the sea, the flashes of red, blue, and yellow from the rockets and flares set off in celebration. And when the devil-drivers release us at dawn, my heart wrenches at the unmistakable clack-clack of anchor chains, the sound of sailors chanting to its beat.

The mist is too dense for me to see further than a few feet, but I imagine myself on board the ship: Its anchor raised, its sails unfurl; wind whistles through the rigging, filling the canvas; the prow cuts through the sea, flinging back great wings of water. . . .

Devil-drivers bellow, shattering my dream. The sailors’ song fades. There is only the sound of the surf, diggers cursing, hawking spit, the clatter of our pickaxes, shovels, screens, and wheelbarrows.

Through the thinning mist, the ships at anchor look like a mysterious village under leafless trees, and the stretch of water between dunghill and anchorage is too great for me to ever clearly see the people on board. If the surf is low and the sea lions and birds have not wakened yet, however, I sometimes hear voices. Not just of men, but women and children.

This morning, a woman’s angry shrill is swiftly followed by a child’s shriek, and I am reminded of Old Lady Chow, our near neighbor in Strongworm when I was a boy, swooping me up like a hawk, my instant and fierce resistance.

A whip cracks. I pick up my pace, sense a general quickening in our ranks. How well schooled in obedience we’ve become in our captivity!

No, not in captivity. Not me. Since proper order demanded my parents punish me for resisting Old Lady Chow, any elder, including my brothers, I long ago learned unquestioning obedience, and it cost me my natural wit and courage, then my family.

AFTER I RETURN home with the day’s water, Ma lights incense. The family bows and prays for Heaven’s protection, for a letter from Ah Lung, for proof he’s alive. I edge away from the altar so the fragrant smoke can’t seep through my clothing and taint the eggs.

Second Sister-in-law plucks my sleeve. “Bo See, are you unwell?”

I snatch for an acceptable excuse. “A little faint.”

“Sit down. I’ll bring you some white flower oil.”

Alarmed at the injury such a pungent oil would inflict, I grip Second Sister-in-law’s arm.

“It’s not necessary.”

The others notice, fuss.

“Go lie down,” Ma urges.

That, though, would crush the eggs on my back and, mumbling it’s fresh air I need, I dodge out the front door.

IN THE SLEEPING shed, some of the stronger men gather and, using scrip, the promise of future rations, a load towards the next day’s quota, place wagers on games of dominoes, fan tan, checkers. Fragrances drifting in with smoke from the drivers’ cooking fires loosen the tongues of men sprawled in their beds.

“They’re stewing the pigs’ feet I hauled up from the beach this morning.”

“Nah, it’s that fatty porkback.”

“Yeah, fatty porkback fried with spicy peppers.”

“Corn, too.”

“Mmmm, roasting in the fires’ wood ash.”

My need growing greater than my shame, I flatten my palms on my bedboards, ease my knees down onto the narrow strip of guano floor between beds, fumble for my manhood, and wet the inkstone’s shallow depression with a splash of piss, then grind my inkstick into it as I would a pestle and mortar.

Little light reaches me from the lantern over the gamblers, but it is enough. Opening Chufat’s book, I dip my brush into the ink and pour out my anguish.

“Let’s tell our Fook Sing Gung the dishes we want cooked for us from now on,” Ah Kam suggests. “I’ll take roasted sweet potatoes.”

“Give me the webbing on duck’s feet.”

“That’s good and chewy alright.”

“Honey-sweet, yet salty.”

Behind me, bedboards creak. Moments later, my light is blocked by Ah Kam leaning over my shoulder.

“Too bad we can’t eat the chicken intestines you’re producing.”

Recoiling from his invasion, his sour breath, I dip my head closer to the paper, shielding the rows of characters, my nose.

“Aw, what a shy bride,” he teases.

“Bride? He’s supposed to be our God of Luck.”

“Maybe he’s a lucky bride.”

“Alas, no.” Ah Kam snatches the book, reads in a mocking tone:

“Savages have taken me prisoner.

I strain my eyes

Looking for my dear ones,

But my dear ones do not appear.

I . . .”

He chokes to a halt. No one scoffs or teases. Gently, one man urges him on, then another. And when Ah Kam does take up where he broke off, it is clear he is lamenting from his heart.

“I strain my ears

Listening for my dear ones,

But I do not hear their voices.

Alone among strangers and barbarians,

My sorrow is bigger than a mountain,

My tears fall like rain.”

As Ah Kam chants, the gamblers stop their play; every man in the shed falls silent. Even after Ah Kam, head bowed, closes the book, the only sounds are ragged breaths, stifled sobs.

The lantern sputters, dims. Still no man speaks. But I hear Moongirl high, clear, and insistent:

“By clever planning,

You
can
turn your situation around.”

A
LL MY ATTENTION directed at keeping safe the eggs against my skin, I become careless with my needle, stab my finger. At the sharp prick, I thrust the injured finger into my mouth—and my eyes flood at the memory of Ah Lung tearing the button from his jacket for me to stitch, my hand sliding across his naked chest.

My heart flutters.

No, not my heart.

Nor is that fluttering but the faint scritch-scratch of newly-hatched worms, and I shiver with the same joyful wonder as a mother at her baby stirring within.

IN MY SLEEP, I reach for Bo See. Instead of warm flesh, my fingers close over something hard, and I startle awake clutching Chufat’s account book with this thought: The devil-king cannot command the Pisco boatmen as he does Chufat. Not while the devil is dependent on the food and water the boatmen bring. Which is to say, not ever.

Uncertain what to make of this revelation, I stare into the smoky darkness of the shed. Traces of cool, salt- and guano
-
laden mist slither through cracks in the walls, and my skin prickles with goosebumps.

Beds creak; shadows shift as men burrow further under their blankets. Hoping the cold will sharpen my mind, I kick mine away—and I am rewarded with the memory of how Moongirl, in making her move from Strongworm to Canton, sought the help of friends.

Can I befriend the Pisco boatmen?

At the attention that would draw on myself, the suspicions I might arouse, the punishment I could then suffer, my breath catches.

“I didn’t think you were the daring type.”

Ah Kam’s jeer, snaking into my head, cuts deep as a driver’s lash. The men’s derisive calls for me to be their Fook Sing Gung slice like the weighted cords of the devil-captain’s punishment whip, and I have to fold my lips to keep from crying out.

Fear didn’t stop me from joining in the mutiny, though. Neither will fear stop me from seeking escape through the Pisco boatmen.

But first I need a plan.

AS IDEAS COME to me, I examine them for practicality. One by one, I discard the impossible, expand the attainable.

Then I search Chufat’s plan for strategies that should be retained.

Assembling the result, I shuffle the steps, refine them.

Finally, I am ready to begin.