Song Read online

  Clearing the dead became a regular occurrence. They mostly passed away in a fever. One woman died in labour. Her screams were so loud that the crew sent down the ship doctor. He delivered twin boys but both were dead. Then the mother bled to death. Song buried his head in his shirt to try to muffle first the woman’s cries, and then the moans of her grieving husband. He thought of his sister Xiao Mei who was born with a twin brother but the boy had died. His mother refused to feed her when she was a baby. A woman in the village had to come to the house to give her milk.

  Song wished he had brought his little sister with him. Maybe his mother would have let her go. His knew his father wouldn’t have if he had have been alive. Xiao Mei had been his favourite. Song remembered her standing on the track as his own cart rolled away. The only one who did not say goodbye.

  By the time the Dartmouth docked in Singapore, Song had lost count of the days, just like the haircutter had told him he would. He listened to the bustling activity up on deck: the heavy wooden crates banging down on the boards and the dull thud of thrown sacks. There were long hours of creaking quiet, and then sequences of shouting and swearing.

  More than twenty of them left the boat there but nearly double that number joined. The hold became even more crowded and tempers flared. A few sharp words turned into brawls. One man bled to death overnight with a knife between his ribs, either too weak to ask for help or too tired of living.

  ‘I’m going to stay on,’ Hai announced.

  Song looked surprised. ‘Didn’t know you were still thinking of getting off.’

  ‘I can get off anytime I like.’

  ‘So you keep telling me,’ Song said. But he was secretly relieved. He admired the older boy’s confidence and was grateful for his English lessons. Song was learning new sounds, beginning to understand the meaning of words and starting to form sentences.

  ‘Want to know two words that’ll get you a long way ?’ Hai asked.

  ‘Sure.’

  ‘“Yes, sir,” simple as that,’ Hai said. ‘No matter what they say, just keep repeating ‘Yes, sir’ and you’ll be all right.’

  ‘I will,’ Song nodded. ‘Yes, sir. Yes, sir. Yes, sir.’

  He felt like he was making good progress. He didn’t care about the halved rations; it was as if he had long ago stopped feeling hungry. Besides, Hai was the only one on board who he could pretend to call a good friend. The rest were nice enough, but too focused on their own survival to be bothered with him. Hai took an interest. Song hoped he’d stay on. He needed him to stay on.

  ‘Why don’t you come all the way to Guiana ?’ Song asked. ‘You’ll have my extra rations all the way. Remember everything we know about the place ?’

  Hai paused. ‘Might do that,’ he said. ‘I didn’t plan it that way but maybe I will. ’Cause I can.’

  ‘Think about all those crabs,’ Song said. ‘Thousands marching in from the sea, crawling into cooking pots of their own accord. Imagine the soft sweet flesh.’

  ‘I told you about all that,’ Hai sneered.

  ‘And with our English, remember we’ll get double pay. We can cut cane or pick mangoes or work in some Englishman’s house.’

  Hai softened. ‘Okay, Song. I’ll come to Guiana. Let’s go and eat crabs all day and all night and all in between.’

  Song was glad of the new passengers. It was as if he instantly graduated upon their arrival. They looked no different but had a strange staccato accent – like a knife on a chopping board – in a language that sounded familiar but too distant to be understood. There were some who spoke English with even greater fluency than Hai. Song tested out some of his new phrases.

  ‘Good morning,’ he said to one man. ‘I can speak English. My name is Song. I work hard. What is your name ?’

  The man laughed. ‘I’m Wang. I like the way you speak.’

  Song was pleased at the sound of the new words on his lips. It did not feel like his own voice he was hearing but someone older, someone who had lived longer than him.

  They said Singapore brought the fever. Song watched as more and more of the passengers around him fell ill. At first there was only a mild stomach ache, but that quickly deteriorated into severe diarrhoea. The routine of the buckets after meals – men first, women second – was abandoned. People were soiling themselves in their clothes. The stench thickened.

  More and more went down with the symptoms. The first casualty was blamed for bringing the sickness on board and nobody mourned his death. He passed his last hours screaming for water, even with a cup held to his lips. His skin was burning hot, before it became cold, lifeless, seemingly waxen.

  Song had never doubted he would reach the sugar plantations of Guiana. In fact, he had been feeling increasingly confident of how his life would take shape after he got off the boat. He had Zhu Wei’s words in his head; he could now speak some English; he had his friend Hai by his side; he knew a lot more than when he had left home.

  But then one night he woke up with searing cramps in his belly. He hoped it might only be hunger pangs, that familiar squeezing sensation which he had learned to push aside and ignore. But within hours he was bent double with the pain. He could hear himself letting out a groan with every breath.

  ‘You’ve got it,’ Hai said. ‘You’ve got it like the rest of them.’

  Song felt too weak to respond with any conviction. ‘I haven’t,’ he whispered over and over. ‘I haven’t.’

  ‘You’ve got it bad.’

  ‘Shut up.’ Song rolled over and brought his knees up to his chest.

  He watched Hai collect together his things and move away from him. ‘I should have left the boat in Singapore,’ he heard his friend mutter.

  The words hit Song hard and he was afraid. Afraid of losing Hai at the next port; afraid of how ill he was becoming; afraid of dying. For the first time, he began to think that he might not make it. His mother would never hear from him again, unaware of what had happened. She would have no idea what had become of her eldest son. He thought of his papa, and implored him now to keep him safe.

  Song curled up on the floor. He closed his eyes and wanted to leave behind everything he knew. The fever was rising in him. His whole body shook. His groans, his bleating voice became a part of his deranged dreams. He saw a face above him and heard his name. There was a woman singing. He heard himself call out for his mother as he slipped between the darkness of sleep and the darkness of the hold. So this was how it was to face death, he thought. A slipping away with no trace.

  Yet someone was trying to part his lips and force him to eat. He tasted soft wet rice in his mouth. With every grain that he managed to swallow he could feel his strength returning. The fever began to wane. He started to think clearly again. To let himself believe he might get better.

  Song had no concept of how long he was ill, but slowly days began to take some form again. He discovered it was Ji Liu who had saved him. She had nursed him with her own rations of rice and water. Song was moved by her kindness. Even when he had the strength to sit up on his own, she held him in her arms and gently fed him by hand. ‘You’re too young to be away from your mother, Song,’ she’d whisper. ‘I’ll take care of you till you get to where you’re going. Too young to be on your own. Too young to die.’

  Song was heavily weakened by the fever and it took a long while for him to feel well again. He slept in such long stretches that he once overheard Hai comment that he thought Song was dead. He was unsteady on his feet. He found himself crawling to the buckets, unable to raise himself on his two feet.

  But in time, he began to feel himself again. He even started to help look after the dying, as a way of saying thank you to Ji Liu. He was no longer afraid of the disease. He had beaten it. He could beat it again if he had to.

  About half the boat was sick. Song copied Ji Liu and held cupfuls of water to the lips of the men and women who cried out with thirst. In between he fanned their feverish bodies. There was a new camaraderie on the ship, as if the passengers had
begun to realise they could only survive by helping each other. Song was one of the few who had made it. Some hadn’t even caught it, like Hai. Nobody knew why some were struck down, and some were spared.

  One night the groaning of a man woke Song and he semi-consciously pulled him over, cradling his upper body until they both fell asleep. The next morning the man’s skin was cold next to his own.

  Song continued to hold the man in his arms; he believed he could still feel a faint pulse in his chest. But when Li Bai came to carry him away Song didn’t protest. Nobody wanted the dead around any longer than necessary.

  ‘He is dead, isn’t he ?’ Song asked.

  ‘You tried your best, son.’

  ‘I thought he might come around . . .’

  Li Bai shook his head.

  Song sighed. ‘What’s it like up there ? On deck ?’

  ‘Better than down here,’ Li Bai replied.

  ‘Can you see land ?’

  ‘I ain’t seen no land, but there’s not much time to look around.’ Li Bai closed his eyes. ‘The sea is bright. The air is cool. Even with a dead man on your back it’s good to be up there.’

  ‘Can I come up one time ?’

  Li Bai laughed. ‘Think you can lift a dead man ?’

  ‘I mean to help you with the sacking,’ Song persisted. ‘After you throw out the body I can bring the sacking back down to Ji Liu to wrap the next man. I’m quicker than I look. I’d get it back before you know it. Then the next body would be ready before you were down.’

  Li Bai smiled at him. ‘I’ll see what I can do.’

  ‘You awake ?’ Hai said.

  Song opened his eyes. He looked across at his friend, who was on his back staring up at the ceiling.

  ‘I’m getting out in Madras,’ Hai said.

  Song sat up. ‘What ?’

  ‘I’m getting out, that’s all. Figure Madras is the place.’

  Song had dropped his voice to a whisper. ‘What about Guiana ? We were going together, remember.’

  ‘Like I said before, I can get out whenever I want. That’s the difference.’

  Song laid his head back down upon his folded shirt. ‘I know. You’ve told me enough damn times.’

  ‘Guiana’s too far,’ Hai went on. ‘I’m not so sure about the place any more. I like the sound of Madras. Heard there were jobs on the railways. Driving trains. Office work. Collecting tickets. Nice clean work.’

  ‘Never said so before,’ Song mumbled.

  ‘I just decided, that’s why.’ Hai’s voice was firm. ‘I’m done with this wretched boat. Everyone’s sick or dying.’

  Song had repeatedly imagined them working together in Guiana. He had pictured them cutting cane or climbing mango trees to collect fruit from the highest branches. Or maybe Hai would find work in an Englishman’s house and get him a job there, too.

  ‘Might be fever in Madras, too,’ Song said. ‘You don’t know anything about it.’

  ‘You don’t know what I know. In fact, I know a lot about Madras. Textiles. That’s what they do there. Clothes for rich people. Good work for someone like me. They speak English. Like me. If you’d paid your way you could get off too.’

  ‘You can’t be sure of Madras,’ Song said. He didn’t want his friend to leave. ‘But we’ve heard enough that we can be sure of Guiana.’

  It had been several weeks since his conversation with Li Bai and Song had not brought it up again. Instead he watched as the big man pulled himself up the ladder, another limp body slung across his shoulders.

  The atmosphere in the hold was sombre. Two more had died of fever overnight, including Ji Liu. Song wouldn’t allow himself to cry in front of everyone, but he hurt inside. She had saved him and promised to take care of him until they reached Guiana.

  Li Bai lifted her up on his shoulders. ‘Gonna come up with me then ?’ he asked.

  Song realised Li Bai was addressing him. He was so surprised he couldn’t speak.

  ‘Changed your mind ?’ Li Bai asked.

  Song jumped to his feet.

  He followed Li Bai up the ladder. It had been many weeks since Song had descended into the hold and his legs trembled as he climbed.

  ‘You all right ?’ Li Bai called out, looking down.

  ‘Right behind you,’ Song said.

  At the opening of the hatch Song crawled out on his stomach, squinting in the light. He couldn’t see anything in the strong sunshine.

  He heard Li Bai whisper under his breath. ‘Don’t let me down, boy.’

  Song had just begun to make out the blurred shapes of figures when Li Bai gave him an order. ‘Take it down. Quick now.’

  Song reached out and felt the sacking as it was pushed into his hands. ‘Hurry,’ Li Bai said. ‘Another body needs wrapping.’

  Song turned to descend with the shroud as he heard Ji Liu’s body hit the water. He remembered her soft voice calling out to him, her hand caressing his forehead. Song gripped the sides of the ladder as he made his way back down. He tried to adjust his eyes again this time to the darkness of the hold. He missed some of the rungs and fell the last few feet landing on his backside. It was Li Bai who pulled him to his feet.

  ‘I’m all right,’ Song said. ‘I’m ready again.’

  ‘Won’t need you this time, Song,’ the big man said. ‘Only two dead. You stay down here now.’

  Song froze. ‘Can I come another time, Li Bai ? I swear I’ll be better.’

  Li Bai was already halfway up and did not reply.

  Someone spoke from a hammock behind Song. ‘Tell us what you saw then.’

  Song recognised the resonant voice of Dai Jie from his singing. But he could not recall anything except for the blinding light.

  The voice grew irritated. ‘Come on. What d’you see ?’

  Song hadn’t noticed the sea, or the sailors on deck, or the billowing sails he had imagined, or the birds, or the colour of the sky. He moved away. ‘Nothing,’ he muttered.

  He threw himself down on the hard floor and closed his eyes. The hatch slammed shut. At the same moment he passed his tongue across his lips and thought he could taste the wind. A sea breeze so salty you could lick it, that was what Zhu Wei had said.

  Song knew it was wrong to wish for someone to die, especially those he had grown to know so intimately. But he had come to rely on the ritual of clearing the dead in order to keep up his hope – and for a chance to go up on deck and breathe.

  He felt a quiet excitement mixed with shame when he heard of someone’s passing. His heartbeat quickened. A second death before the morning and he would be allowed to follow Li Bai up the ladder.

  Song learned to stare straight up at the bright light of the open hatch as he climbed the rungs. That way his eyes adjusted more quickly to the daylight on deck. But he was careful to keep his gaze low and only flicked quick glances up at the broad watery-blue sky and the dark expanse of ocean.

  The great cream sails tugged at their knots, blowing fully open and rounded like a swollen belly. Loose cloth flapped and beat like a flight of geese while sailors shouted to haul and ease the ropes. Song stole glances at the men moving swiftly around deck dressed in loose white shirts, their brass buttons glinting on the sides of their navy trousers. Their skin shone like polished pomegranates. Thick brown hair covered the lower half of their faces. Sometimes when they spoke to each other Song could understand. He felt glad for Hai’s lessons, no matter what Li Bai had said.

  ‘If it goes on like this, there won’t be any left,’ he heard one of the sailors say. ‘No wonder they’re dying; I can smell the shit from up here,’ said another. ‘We’ll have to source dozens more in Madras.’ Song sensed they must be nearing the port where Hai said he would be leaving. He hoped he could still persuade his friend to stay.

  ‘They’ve been sick up there, too,’ Song told Hai, hoping the lie might make his friend feel better about their lot. ‘It’s not just us. They’re saying it’ll soon clear up. And they’re all talking about how Guiana’s going to
make them rich. How they would be prepared to face a voyage twice as long to get there.’

  But up on deck, Song overheard the desire to get off the boat. ‘I’ve a good mind to quit,’ one sailor said. ‘This boat is cursed.’ The words turned Song cold. He wasn’t going to repeat that.

  Still, Song longed for another death. It wasn’t for the snatched conversations but for the light, for the wind, for the wet unsalty rain that he could suck off his forearms. On clear days, Song returned to the hold and hours later he could still smell the sun on the back of his hands and feel its heat in his black hair.

  ‘First thing I’m going to do is steal a chicken. I’m going to wring its neck, rip out its feathers, cook it with ginger and eat the whole thing myself.’

  Hai had been speaking that way ever since he had made up his mind to leave. He was driving Song mad with his talk of food.

  ‘You steal a chicken and they’ll string you up at dawn.’

  ‘You’ve never seen me steal,’ Hai said. ‘These feet are so soft that not even the ghosts can hear me.’

  ‘The whole city will be down with fever, just you wait. Even the chickens.’

  As hard as Song tried to keep his friend on the boat, Hai did what he said he was going to do and left at Madras. He clambered up the ladder, his silhouette becoming smaller and smaller. Song tried to swallow the hard lump in his throat.