River of Dust A Novel

Fifteen

T he following noon, Grace, Mai Lin, the Reverend, and Ahcho, along with several donkey drivers, set out from the compound. The servants had been in a flurry all morning as they prepared for an abrupt departure, but they were most professional and uncomplaining. Grace felt she should model her own behavior on theirs in this instance. Once on the trail, however, it was immediately apparent that she did not have it in her to be as flexible as was needed. She requested frequent stops, which were terribly awkward given the exposed terrain and the fact that she and Mai Lin were the only women in the company of a half-dozen men. Mai Lin had been right: a traveling cart would have been far preferable to a lumpy donkey back, but it was too late now.

In midafternoon, their party paused under a tree by a narrow, rocky stream where only a trickle of water flowed. Grace fell asleep right away, wrapped in a warm blanket on a rug set down for her on the rough earth. She was awakened only a few moments later by the overwhelming sight of the Reverend already atop his donkey again, the fur over his shoulders, the yellow animal eyes staring down at her. No wonder the Chinese did as her husband said: he resembled some mythic god out here on the plains. The light shimmered around him, and she could almost believe as they did. He was more miracle than man.

She clambered back upon her donkey after their altogether too brief rest, and on they rode, heading across the plains in the direction of the western hills. Hunched atop the beast with her arms around her amah, who steered it, Grace insisted that they keep pace with the Reverend. She tried repeatedly to introduce topics she thought might be of interest to him, but for much of the day, he kept his head buried in a book.

Although Grace tried to concentrate on observing him and keeping herself comfortable, she soon noticed a surprising number of people out walking on the dirt roads that crisscrossed the desert plains. She wondered where on earth they were all going. On their backs they carried great bundles of what appeared to be bedding or clothing, with pots and pans dangling down. Weapons or tools of the field sagged in their weary hands. Children shuffled along, not even lifting their eyes when she passed. That was most unusual because she was normally a magnet for the young. But these families appeared too burdened to look up or speak.

"Where are they going?" she asked Mai Lin.

"The fields are no good anymore. They go to Fenchow-fu or other towns to find work."

"But there isn't any work in Fenchow-fu. There are already too many beggars on the streets."

Mai Lin offered a tsking sound.

"They should just stay put," Grace said. "They'd be better off."

"Robbers now cover the countryside. But robbers also hide in



alleys in the city. They don't care where they slit your throat," Mai Lin said with a chuckle.

"How awful!" Grace said. "You must not say things like that Mai Lin. These good families will surely reach their destinations."

Mai Lin shrugged, and they carried on. Grace thought it better not to dwell upon the fates of the poor Chinese. It was terrible, but what could be done? She had first arrived in Shansi during the drought of 1907, when the Reverend had been mightily preoccupied with famine relief. He worked passionately day and night to secure financial support from expatriate Americans and congregations back home to help the starving Chinese. He quickly raised enough to build the roads that brought in the Red Cross and shipments of food from American companies to the villages. In one of their first encounters, he had described to Grace the grateful Chinese children stuffing wads of Wrigley's Juicy Fruit gum into their mouths and how he had frantically instructed them not to swallow. Of course other food was delivered as well, and then, when the rain eventually came, those same newly constructed roads then carried crops from the fields to the marketplace more swiftly than ever. It had all worked out in the end. Except that this famine of the present year seemed every bit as bad and appeared unending.

Nonetheless, Grace had admired the Reverend so during that difficult time. Her passion for him had grown tenfold in her breast. When he had finally looked up from his efforts, she had believed it an actual miracle that he professed to feel the same way about her. She hadn't allowed herself to believe he'd even noticed her in the two months since her arrival. The two were married a fortnight later on a gloriously rainy day in the small mission chapel. Falling raindrops had been far better than the usual confetti or rice tossed onto the shoulders of bride and groom. And while some in the mission had been surprised at the sudden nuptials, such was the swiftness and surety of their love for one another.

Grace had never been happier, although her subsequent explanatory letter home took some careful crafting. Her mother's agitated return telegram had brought scalding tears to Grace's eyes, but after several more exchanges, eventually a heavy box of handsome sterling place settings arrived from the best jewelry store in Cleveland, and the rift with her family was mended. Yet further evidence that everything worked out in the end.

Now she gazed at her husband, who remained absorbed in his book. It worried her that he had grown inward since those earlier, more purposeful days. But she supposed that was what personal tragedy wrought. What was the starvation and death of thousands when your own child was lost to you?

Grace tried to shake this sad thought from her mind. She forced herself to speak up in a bright tone. "I believe you must have memorized the Good Book by now, Reverend."

He looked across at her and blinked.

"Don't you think you have studied enough for one day?" she asked. "The Lord is not going to quiz you on each and every chapter and verse."

The Reverend lifted the leather-bound volume in his hand and actually smiled. "This is not the Good Book, my dear, but ancient Chinese poetry."

"Is it really?" she asked. "How absolutely astounding."

"Yes, it is. They have a knack for simplicity that the Romantics



missed altogether. And they do not flinch from the hard things in life. I find their melancholia to be the perfect mirror to this desolate setting. Would you care to read some?"

Grace let out an embarrassed titter but then nodded most gratefully. Her husband was more surprising by the minute. She thought she could ride on with him for days if he was to treat her thusly, including her in his unusual passions. He passed her the book of Chinese poetry, but she did not open it.

"Go on," he said. "Read."

"I cannot," she replied.

"Why?"

"I have not learned their written language."

He stared at her with horror. "Every day in our new school we teach the illiterate Chinese children, and yet you do not know how to read the language of the land in which you now live? Why haven't you attended those classes?"

Grace bit her bottom lip.

"I do not understand why women refuse to be educated but insist instead on filling their minds with frivolous things. Ladies care more about their hemlines and hairdos than about the actual meaning of life. Here, hand me back the volume."

She passed him the book with a limp hand and thought that would be the end of it. He would punish her again with his silence. But the Reverend cleared his throat and commenced to read aloud. His voice rang out as they rode until a late-afternoon sun crept over the plains. She studied her husband in all his grandeur, although she could not help but be curious about the various specific accessories that made him quite so startling a figure now. Whatever were all those things hanging from him, especially the pouch with the twin golden dragons that sloped down from the red sash and slapped against the side of the donkey with each step? Grace bent slightly toward it and wondered at the perfect orblike shape inside the satchel. What on earth did he have in there? she wondered. But she did not dare to interrupt, although she could hardly concentrate on the meaning of the verses for all the love and admiration welling up in her for her Rev erend.

She was also distracted by a continual stabbing pain that rose up from below her swollen belly. And the desert dust didn't agree one bit with her lungs. More and more often, Mai Lin had to slow their animal while Grace coughed madly into her handkerchief. Mai Lin would have to wash blood from the used ones that evening. But the Reverend read on, mesmerized and mesmerizing in the shimmering light. He remained oblivious to her various complaints, and Grace was simply grateful to be at his side.

As they reached the foothills at dusk, bells rang out from the hollows. On many of his previous trips— both those to encourage the outlying churches in his first half-dozen years in China and his more recent ones of the previous months in search of their son— the Reverend had written her long letters in his fine cursive. For pages he had carried on about the beauty of this sort of setting. She had long pictured it in her mind. His letters, she realized now, had perfectly captured the strange grace of this distant land.

The Reverend finally closed the book of poetry.

"So, what do you think, Mai Lin?" he asked. "Superior words from your ancient compatriots, yes?"

"I know these poems. There is much wisdom in them for those who care to open their clogged ears and listen."

Grace thought she sensed the older woman's stare upon her. She felt it was not her fault that she had become so distracted by life, and she promised herself she would try to do better in the realm of selfeducation. But for now, as the chilly day slipped into colder evening, she could not help being preoccupied with her husband's state of mind: he appeared to be blooming to life again out here. Now that he was on the trail, his dark mood had lifted. She grasped more fully that he was one man in the Christian compound and an altogether different and happier one out here in this mysterious countryside.

A camel train passed, and the Reverend had encouraging words for the drivers. He raised his hat and cheerfully flagged them on. He then instructed Ahcho to carry on ahead with Grace and Mai Lin while he circled back. Grace looked over her shoulder to see her husband's head bowed in conversation with one of the camel drivers. When the Reverend rejoined their party, he reached across and patted her hand.

"The fellow knew my mission even before I opened my mouth. The whole country is our eyes and ears now, although he insisted on calling me Great Lord Ghost Man. Imagine such foolishness."

She was grateful for her husband's determination to find their son but did not say so, for she feared she might have to choke back tears. She was grateful for so much, even in the midst of such tragedy. Pain shot up her spine again, and it took all her concentration not to have her smile collapse into a grimace.

"Do you hear those chimes?" he asked as they rose higher up the hillside. "Those used to emanate from a temple, but now they toll in the tower of our newest little chapel. Can you imagine the joy it must bring to the deprived coolie after a long day of work?"

She smiled on but still could not speak as she witnessed her husband of old returning to her. He appeared quite joyous and gay out here. Grace couldn't help wondering if she would have to become itinerant as well to enjoy his fine company.