Song Page 2

  ‘I’ll be back soon,’ Song called out. ‘With sugar and gold and diamonds, I promise. You wait and see.’

  Song watched his family diminish on the track, their smudged figures in a row: Xiao Wan with his arm pulled up unnaturally high to grip his mother’s hand; Xiao Mei, who didn’t speak any more; the hungriest, San San, who never complained but whose tummy groaned and grumbled so loudly the others rested their ear upon it just to hear; and Xiao Bo, too small to understand most things but aware today his eldest brother was leaving them. They continued to wave until Song could no longer make out their faces; he could see only their arms fanning to and fro in big sweeps. He watched them turn away and walk along the elevated muddy pathway between the lake-fields where the rice had once grown.

  For three days, the landscape barely changed. They passed beyond the villages Song knew and began to skirt those he might have visited once or twice until everybody he saw was a stranger. He stared backwards into the wake of the cart, choosing a point – a bush, a house, a buffalo – to watch shrink away, like his family had. It made him feel he was getting closer to where he was going.

  On the cart it was mostly men but Song noticed a few boys as young as himself. Some were brothers. Not even they talked much to each other but Song was used to that, especially since the flood. Lishui had fallen quiet after the loss of its men, as if the village was too afraid to speak or hear anything more, lest there was further bad news.

  Song remembered his father’s warning and kept his head down and tried not to catch anyone’s eye. In the day he tucked his swing-basket of rice tightly under his arm, waiting until after dark to scoop some grains up to his mouth and feeling around his lap for any morsel he might have dropped.

  He slept fitfully. He sometimes stayed awake all night staring up at the stars in the sky and imagining a land as far away as that. As the heat of the day rose up he copied the others, and tied his shirt around the crown of his head and dozed. Sometimes he was woken by rain pelting his skin or by his own shivering. He curled himself up more tightly and tried again to drift off to sleep.

  One morning he opened his eyes to see sun crackling off the rice fields. He squinted at the glare. Around him the land had suddenly taken on colour. The rounded hills had turned green. The soil was the rich brown of mushrooms. Buffaloes shone like aubergines, each with a white egret upon its back.

  Song noticed the other men in the cart as if he was seeing them for the first time. They had become handsome in the sharp sunlight and their features were more pronounced. Conversations began between each other, as if they were slowly emerging from a cold and colourless hibernation.

  The city was also taking shape. There were more carts on the road, more people, more haste. Song thought back to the stories he had heard about the city called Guangzhou, some of hope, many of them harrowing. His own uncle had returned rich, leading a pair of buffaloes into their village, each laden with sacks of dried fish, coloured bottles and sweet plums. ‘One of the lucky few,’ his father had whispered, out of his brother-in-law’s earshot but ensuring his children heard. Yet within days his uncle was stone cold dead. His heart had stopped in his sleep. ‘I spoke too soon,’ his father said. ‘Not even one of the lucky few.’

  Most came back poorer and thinner than when they had left. They were often too spent to talk about it. Rumours collected like stagnant water until everyone had caught a whiff, building up fear of this big city, where grown men were whipped like animals until they bled from their eyeballs, and wicked women with magical pipes cast spells which could steal someone’s memory and money without provoking a whisper of protest.

  Of course there were some who never made it back at all. There was a boy from Lishui, not much older than Song, who followed his brother to the city. Some had heard he was running a string of brothels and opium dens and making more money in one day than any of them were likely to see in a lifetime. Others said he’d had his throat slit, and had been left to rot in some fetid bend of the Pearl River.

  The cart slowed as it made its way through the narrow lanes. There were stubborn animals in the road and traders hustling, pulling behind them wagons laden with green cabbages, bales of bamboo shoots and cages of chickens. Song was surprised by how much he liked the town, at least from these first impressions. He could smell salt fish, durian and overripe papaya. There was shouting and laughing and squabbling all muddled up; street-sellers touting sticks of fried squid, bowls of spicy bean curd and steamed dumplings. Song gulped at the air to try to taste the food.

  The Pearl River was wide and choppy and crammed with boats; captains jostled for a berth while armies of coolies competed to move the cargo. Rice barges lined up. A rope was thrown, a boat was tethered and a dozen men began to transfer sacks of rice from the dock to the deck. Working in pairs, they launched sack after sack through the air while the sailors on board caught the cargo, breaking its fall and positioning it neatly in rows. Slim dugouts shared the river, steered by men clasping poles who stirred their wake as if it was a pudding, directing the nose of the vessel. Other boats carried a half-dozen boys who took turns to dive into the water and scoop up handfuls of riverbed sludge.

  When Song’s cart pulled up at the dock he was the first to set his feet down on the jetty. Moored in front of him were two large wooden ships. He craned his neck to look up at the stern of the nearest, which swept upwards and away from him. Higher yet, the masts punctured the sky, fixing a lattice of rigging. He followed the thick swaying ropes down to the bulging hull of the boat; an anchor hung impotently at the bow. It was just as Zhu Wei had described.

  Song turned back to his group. In that short time the atmosphere had already changed. There was an unease, like that around hunted animals.

  ‘Line up. In a line, I say.’ The Englishman in navy uniform struck out with his leather strap. He hit a man’s face and Song saw a welt appear across his cheek. There was a swelling of the crowd away from the Englishman. Song was shoved. He stumbled, but someone caught his wrist and kept him standing. ‘Thank you,’ Song managed to say.

  ‘Kid like you needs to be caught by someone.’ The man was gaunt but strong and with close-set eyes. ‘What you doing so young going alone ?’

  ‘Just got to,’ Song said flatly.

  ‘Too young. What they call you ?’

  ‘Song.’

  ‘I’m Wei Ling. You about to grow up, boy.’

  The Englishman’s voice became louder. There was confusion on the dock. Song hated not knowing what the man was saying, not knowing what he should be doing. But he noticed some of the men started falling into line and Song copied them.

  Pails of water appeared, as well as brick-sized bars of caustic soap. The men followed each other’s lead and crouched down to wash their bodies and their clothes, soaping and rinsing twice over. One man with scissors and a comb walked along the rows and chopped off everyone’s hair close to the skin. Song watched as his own hair fell to the ground, bursting like seed pods as it landed. He reached up to feel his scalp and the tufted patches the haircutter had missed.

  ‘Short is best on a boat,’ the haircutter whispered. ‘Itches less.’

  ‘What else ?’ Song asked.

  ‘Stay away from the sick and the short-tempered. Get off as soon as you can.’

  ‘Where ? After how many days ?’

  ‘Tell you that and you won’t get on, boy. Don’t count the days. Counting’s no good for anyone.’

  ‘Do you know the place where there’s sugar and gold ?’

  The haircutter whistled. ‘Guiana. But that place is too far, boy. Nobody ever arrived there alive.’

  ‘How far ?’

  But the haircutter was already out of earshot. Song put his shirt back on and tried to squeeze the water out of the corners of his sodden clothes. ‘Guiana,’ he repeated softly to himself. Someone kicked his foot to get his attention.

  ‘Who are you ?’

  Song looked up. The boy was bigger than Song. Skinny, too, but taller. There
were sores on the boy’s newly exposed scalp.

  ‘I’m Song from Lishui.’

  ‘I’m Hai,’ the boy replied. ‘I’m paying my own way.’

  Song could not hide his surprise. ‘Are you ? I thought we didn’t have to pay.’

  Hai chuckled. ‘You don’t have to. But it’s only fools who take up free passage.’

  ‘I’m the one going for free. Ask anyone here who’s the fool.’

  ‘You, my friend,’ Hai said, prodding Song hard in the chest. ‘You are. Go for free and you’re little more than a slave in chains. They say those days are over but it’s not true. Pay your way like me and you can choose your own destiny. Freedom. You don’t know the price of that until you lose it. I swear it’s more than some measly passage on a ship.’

  Song shrugged at the boy. He didn’t fully understand what he was saying but it was enough to make him feel worried on the inside.

  ‘Of course if you don’t have any money then you’ve got no choice,’ Hai continued. ‘Die a quick death in this dump or take a gamble on a ship. I’d do what you’re doing too, if it makes you feel any better.’

  Song didn’t feel any better. He wished this boy would shut his big mouth.

  ‘I can get on whatever boat I want, and get off wherever I choose, that’s the difference. Singapore, Penang, Madras, Calcutta, Mauritius. Like the sound of those ? I can decide on any place I fancy.’

  ‘Guiana,’ Song said. ‘That’s where I’m getting off.’

  Hai whistled, like the haircutter had. ‘What do you know about Guiana anyway ?’

  ‘A lot,’ Song said. ‘Sugarcane grows there, thick and sweet. Rubber bleeds of its own accord from the bark of trees. Upcountry there are gold mines and diamond mines.’

  ‘That’s what they tell you,’ Hai said.

  ‘And what do you know about it ?’ Song said.

  ‘It’s a long, long way. Nobody arrives there alive. But I’m not saying it’s a bad idea. Crabs. You heard about the crabs ? Every May thousands of crabs march in from the sea, crawl up the walls of the houses on to the ceiling and fall down into pots of hot water on the stove.’ Hai moved his fingers like crabs sidling up and down imaginary walls. ‘You can eat crab all of May, even into June.’

  Song’s eyes widened. ‘I love crab.’

  ‘There you go then,’ Hai said with a wink. ‘Didn’t say it was all bad, did I ? But you won’t catch me going that far. I’m thinking of Malaya. There’s rubber there too, you know. Or tea in India. Or anywhere else I fancy. Guiana’s not bad though – if you make it through the voyage.’

  CHAPTER 2

  Song looked down at the square entrance of the dark hold and for a brief moment thought about changing his mind. But then he turned to climb backwards down the ladder. Down and down he descended. Below deck it was cool and damp and dark. The ceiling was too low to stand upright and Song crouched. A few slender shards of sunlight pierced through ill-fitting planks and he put his hand into the light to feel the warmth on his luminous fingers.

  After a few minutes he began to make out the shapes of men, some from the cart and others who he had not seen before. They were arranging blankets and clothes to lie on the floor. Some were tying up hammocks they had brought; others were fixing rope across corners of the hold and hanging up wet clothes.

  There were already groups forming. Song was astonished to see there were women too, some with babies and others pregnant like his mother. He wondered then if his own family could have come with him. He looked at the families, huddled close, resting their heads in the pillows of each other’s laps, speaking softly and stroking one another’s shorn heads. Unconsciously Song reached up to feel his own bristly scalp. He thought of his mother cradling him as he waited to hear her say she would let him go. In his mind he could feel the weight of Xiao Wan lying across his own lap, wheezing as he breathed; long nights of Xiao Mei’s chesty cough; the soft crying of Xiao Bo, even hungrier now.

  Song settled himself. He took off his wet shirt and draped it over his empty swing-basket. That was all he had. Then he watched as more people clambered down the ladder into the hold. He recognised the gangly figure of Wei Ling. Then there was Hai; Song waved and the bigger boy moved towards him.

  ‘There’s space here if you like,’ Song said.

  ‘You ain’t got a hammock either ? Follow me,’ Hai said. ‘Better to be close to the middle. Less rolling around. You don’t have the smell of shit either. Buckets are always in the corners.’

  Song was grateful. He picked up his basket and shirt, and followed Hai towards the central axis of the boat.

  ‘Have you been on a boat before then ?’ Song asked.

  ‘May as well have been,’ Hai said. ‘All my friends have. But I was earning good money in Guangzhou so I decided to stick around. An Englishman hired me. Taught me English. Paid me a good wage. That’s how I can pay my own passage. I know about boats. This one’s the Dartmouth. Made in England but it’s been all over the world.’

  ‘If things were so good, why are you leaving ?’

  Hai hesitated. ‘You can’t stay in one place forever. Why are you leaving ?’

  ‘My family’s sick. There was nothing to eat. I promised I’d find work and come back with food and money.’

  Hai snorted. ‘Don’t you have any idea how far you’re going ? You’re not going to come back. If you did, your family would either already be dead or have found their own way without an ounce of your help. The only help you’re giving them is there’s one less mouth to feed. Don’t kid yourself that you’re going to save them by getting on this boat. You’re on your own now. You won’t see them again.’

  Song smashed his fist into Hai’s face. He was too quick for the bigger boy to duck.

  ‘You damn bastard,’ Hai cried out, as his hand went up to his bloodied nose.

  ‘Don’t you tell me about me and my family,’ Song said. ‘You don’t know anything about us.’ Then he offered his wet shirt to the boy. ‘You need to quit talking so much.’

  Hai took the shirt and held it to his nose to stem the bleeding. He spoke through the blood and cloth. ‘You know I’m right. You won’t see them again.’

  ‘You’re wrong about that,’ Song said. Hai’s words frightened him. He changed the subject. ‘So you decided yet where you’re getting off ?’

  ‘Maybe Singapore,’ Hai replied, still nursing his injury. ‘Not far and good for office work, if you can speak English. I speak English like an Englishman. The English are lazy; they don’t want to learn other languages. Speak English and you can bet on double pay.’

  ‘How did you learn it ?’

  ‘Like I told you, from a real Englishman. Mine is proper English, not some pidgin. I could teach you for a sum. It’s easy. It was easy for me anyway.’

  Song shrugged. ‘I don’t have any money.’

  ‘Half your food rations,’ Hai said. ‘I’m bigger than you so I need more food.’

  Song knew there would not be enough to eat, but he was used to that. He nodded. ‘Maybe,’ he said.

  ‘You crazy ?’ A voice in the darkness interrupted them. ‘What you thinking agreeing to such nonsense ? You’ll be dead in a week.’

  ‘What do you know ?’ Hai retorted sharply. Song was surprised at Hai’s boldness; the voice belonged to a man much bigger than him. ‘Speaking English is more useful than a few grains of rice.’ He turned back to Song. ‘You want to speak English like a real Englishman ?’

  The man snorted. ‘You listen to Li Bai, son. He knows what’s what. Forget this boy’s crazy idea.’

  Hai ignored the man. ‘It’s your last chance,’ he pressed Song. ‘I could teach you a few words that could save your life. Learn English from me and you’ll find your way wherever you go.’

  ‘Is that what they speak in Guiana ?’ Song asked. He didn’t dare look at Li Bai.

  ‘Of course. Everywhere the English go.’

  Song remembered the confusion on the dock when the uniformed Englishman was shouting a
t them and nobody knew what he was saying.

  ‘Starting today ?’ Song asked.

  ‘Starting tomorrow,’ Hai replied. ‘When the boat leaves.’

  The boat did not move for several days and their quarters became hotter and more cramped. By the time the hatch slammed shut there was not a bare patch of floor. The shaft of light extinguished as quickly as forked lightning and the hold was suddenly quiet. Song heard the shouting of sailors above; footsteps pounding the deck; the squeaking of rubbing ropes. The Dartmouth shuddered and seemed to lower as it pulled away.

  Song lay down, his back flat against the wooden boards, and allowed himself a smile. He had done what he had promised himself: left home to board a ship that would take him to a far-off land – to find sugar and gold and diamonds. Then he would come back and save his family.

  The seas were heavy and the air unmoving. But Song didn’t mind about that; it was the darkness that got to him. Not being sure of when day became night, or night became day, with no sense of the passage of time. He was glad of his new friend. Hai punctured the darkness with his fantasies, his ideas, his dreams.

  Almost everyone else complained of the motion of the swell of the sea, the rise and fall of the waves, the churning inside. Some were sick, including Hai. He said he didn’t feel like teaching. Song didn’t feel well enough to do much learning either. Families fanned each other, breaking their rhythm to swipe at a fly. One of the men, Dai Jie, played a flute to pass the day. He sang ballads, folk songs, mournful heartbroken tunes. Song drifted between restless sleep and a semiconscious haze. The days were marked only by meals: a bowl of rice and a cup of water twice a day. After eating the men went to the buckets. When the women followed, the men turned away.

  Before the end of the first week the first body had to be cleared. They said he was sick when he came on board. Song remembered his hacking cough but could not picture his face. Besides his name nobody knew anything more about him. One of the women, Ji Liu, shrouded his body in sacking and Li Bai volunteered to take him up the ladder. Everyone watched as Li Bai slowly climbed each rung with the dead man slumped across his strong shoulders. He knocked hard with his fist on the underside of the hatch. It opened and there was an exchange. Li Bai lifted himself out, steadying his load. Song thought he heard a dull splash as the body hit the water. He flinched. Not for the man who he didn’t know and couldn’t remember, but for all the dead men he had known – his uncle, the men taken by the flood, his own father. So many had left his world. Here was another. Li Bai appeared again in the open hatch, carrying only the torn sacking in his hands.