Outrun the Moon (19 page)

The woman stops suddenly, blinking hard like the sunlight is too bright. Her rib cage heaves in quick succession, and she clutches her chest. Like a felled tree, her cane lands with a thud, and a moment later, the head peacock of St. Clare's crashes to the ground after it.

GIRLS SHRIEK AND FORM A RING AROUND the headmistress.

“She needs a doctor!”

“Give her space!”

“Get off me; it's just a dizzy spell,” pants Headmistress Crouch, who is amazingly, but not surprisingly, still conscious. No doubt when she's outfitted in her wooden coat, she'll be one of those corpses whose eyes won't close, forever glaring.

Georgina has lifted the woman's head to her sturdy knees, and Minnie Mae is fanning her. Harry has fetched a cone of water, and Katie prepares a compress to put on the woman's head. The Boston sisters have scattered in different directions, crying for a doctor, their kittens piled by the fire.

I stare down at the headmistress's heaving form, my anger still making my mouth pucker and my face burn. Part of me wants to see her suffer for all the horrible things she's said. But that would just lead to guilt later.

I jump off the crate and run toward Ah-Suk's camp. Sure, he's not the type of physician Headmistress Crouch will be used to—or even approve of—but for a good appetite, there is no hard bread.

He is standing by the lake, twisting his torso back and forth. With his swinging arms, he pounds his front and back, the knocking-on-the-door exercise that stimulates energy flow.

“Ah-Suk! Our teacher is having some sort of fit! She collapsed, and her face is flushed, and she's breathing hard,” I ramble excitedly in my native tongue.

We hurry back to my camp. Girls part when they see us, their eyes wide with surprise.

“This is Dr. Gunn. He doesn't speak English, so I will translate.”

Ah-Suk scoops up Headmistress Crouch's limp wrist with his bony fingers, striped blue with his thick veins. She recoils into Georgina, her hand twitching in an effort to pull away, but she's too tired to manage it. Expertly, Ah-Suk takes her pulse with his three fingers, then switches sides and measures her other wrist. He makes a groaning noise that means he's thinking. “Forceful and taut. Depth is too strong.”

I don't bother to translate yet, as then I would have to explain his pulse reading, which is as complicated as fortune-telling. Plus, the less foreign he sounds, the less squabbling she will do.

In Cantonese, he says, “Stick out your tongue.” I translate.

Headmistress Crouch turns her head away. “What witchcraft have you brought here? Take him away from me. And get this furball off me!” One of the kittens has stumbled over and is attempting to scale her boot. A Boston sister picks off the animal and returns her to the others.

Ah-Suk draws up a thin eyebrow, waiting for my translation.

“Er, she said that she is shy about sticking out her tongue,” I lie.

“Why?” He snaps. The man can be as testy as Headmistress Crouch. “Is she shy about opening her mouth when she eats her dinner? Or when she yawns? It's the same thing. Tell her.”

Headmistress Crouch narrows her eyes at me and mutters, “How barbaric. Stick out my tongue indeed. It's indecent! I don't even know you.”

That word again,
barbaric
. “He says he thinks you might have tongue rot and needs a closer look.” There, you pompous peacock, that's for your nastiness.

The woman gasps. “I do NOT have tongue rot.” She glowers at me so intently, I think her eyes might pop out like peas from a shooter.

Ah-Suk sticks out his own tongue with an
ahhhh
sound, encouraging her to do the same. Headmistress Crouch shrinks back farther into Georgina's lap, horror written plainly across her shiny face. “Stop it! Stop it, I say!” she cries in a hoarse voice.

“Ahhh,”
Ah-Suk continues to prod her.

She resists a moment longer but finally unfurls her red flag like a petulant child. Her tongue only hangs there a few seconds, but long enough to see a thick yellow coat on its surface.

Ah-Suk nods. “High blood pressure, causing enlarged spleen.”

I translate.

“Yes, I know,” Headmistress Crouch snaps. “I could've told you that without making me go through that rigmarole. Oh, I feel dizzy.” She lays back her head.

“She said ‘thank you,'” I tell Ah-Suk. “What should she do?”

“She will have to be leeched. If she doesn't, maybe she'll have a heart attack. She is in a bad condition.”

Leeched.
“She is not going to like that. You don't have any herbs?”

“Leeches are very effective at relieving excess blood pressure. She won't feel it. And I only have my sleeping herbs, nothing stronger.”

The girls are watching our exchange of Cantonese as if watching a match of table tennis. Katie's lips move, trying on the words for size.

“What's he saying?” huffs Headmistress Crouch.

A Boston tries to put a wet compress on the woman's forehead, but the headmistress makes a hissing sound, and the girl shrinks away.

I let go of the breath I am holding. Headmistress Crouch will never agree to be leeched, especially by Dr. Gunn. She'd wait until a western doctor could be found, but even a western doctor might not have the right medicine. It's miles to the nearest hospital, assuming they're still standing, and assuming they'd take a crotchety old woman over a bleeding earthquake victim.

Ah-Suk circles the wrist of one hand and the other, waiting patiently for my response.

“You said you have sleeping tea. Could she be leeched while she's sleeping?”

A muscle in his cheek quivers. “Of course.”

Headmistress Crouch smacks her lips as if she is thirsty, her steely gaze still pinning me.

“He says he will make you a cup of tea,” I tell her. “Would you like that?”

Her eyebrows raise, and the girls begin murmuring. I can't
think of a single person who would refuse a cup of tea under the circumstances.

I tell Ah-Suk, “She says yes.”

He raises an eyebrow at me, and I realize I gave him Headmistress Crouch's response before she replied. But then he nods. “I will fetch them. Bring my suitcase.”

Creakily, the man gets to his feet and moves off toward the lake.

“I need to get some things for Dr. Gunn,” I tell them. Catching Francesca's eye, I hitch my head for her to follow me. Harry and Katie come, too.

Once we are out of earshot, Francesca asks, “What's going on?”

“Dr. Gunn is going to give her sleeping tea. And then he wants to leech her.”

Harry covers her ears, like I said a dirty word.

“It's her best chance of avoiding a heart attack.”

“My gran said they used to leech people when she was a girl. Said it was good for releasing their bad humors. And that grouch certainly has a lot of bad humor to release.”

“Not that kind of humor,” Francesca says with a smile. “I'm sorry she said such awful things to you, Mercy. None of us feel that way.” Harry and Katie nod. “But do you really think you should leech her without her permission?”

“It's not ideal. But Dr. Gunn is the most respected doctor in Chinatown and one of our sharpest minds. Elodie's mother even came to him seeking his medicines.” I don't elaborate. “He has cured thousands with his own hands, including my brother, who
developed weak lungs from the bubonic plague vaccination. Jack would've died without him. And Headmistress Crouch is in serious condition.”

Francesca stops walking and regards me seriously from under her lashes. “If you think she might die, we will help however we can.”

“Thank you.” I march grimly, and the others match their paces to mine.

We arrive at Ah-Suk's camp, where Mr. and Mrs. Pang are cooking another fish in their pan. “Good morning, Auntie and Uncle.” I introduce the girls, and the Pangs greet them with a bow, which the girls awkwardly return.

“Dr. Gunn has asked me to fetch his suitcase for him,” I explain.

I duck into the tent and collect the case. When I emerge, Mr. Pang is showing the girls his fish, gesturing that they should try some.

“We have already eaten, Uncle,” I tell him. With a sad expression, he puts his pan down, and I quickly add, “But we would be honored if you would join us tonight for dinner. We will be making a feast for forty-four people. Please tell your friends.”

Mr. Pang frowns, and belatedly I realize I should not have mentioned that unlucky count. He gives me a tight smile and nods. It would be impolite for him to refuse my invitation in front of the others, but he and his family may simply decide not to show up.

Ah-Suk's tea set is more modern than Mr. Waterstone's set from China, with a higher gloss and tiny flowers painted along the side. But like Mr. Waterstone's, it comes with the same wooden tools: brush, scoop, and wand. Ah-Suk ladles water into the pot, which he stuffed with herbs from his suitcase.

Headmistress Crouch is propped against a crate, with the pillow cushioning her back. She is breathing easier again.

Minnie Mae holds up the little brush. “Can I do the sweeping of the spirits?”

Ah-Suk frowns at the girl dabbing at the air.

“Er, the earthquake is making us all a little daft,” I say to him with an embarrassed laugh.

Ah-Suk grunts. After the herbs are steeped, he pours a dollop into one of the cups, sets down the pot, then pours the liquid back and forth from the first cup to a second cup. The girls, who are polishing off their rice porridge, watch him with round eyes. It does make for a nice show, and I wish I had thought of it for my own tea ceremony. Finally, he kneels and presents it to Headmistress Crouch. Her hands tremble, so he helps lift the delicate cup to her mouth.

A flock of geese lands in a flurry of wings, then waddles by, honking. Their long black necks look like ladies' gloves elegantly waving as they float by. Just before they take to the sky moments later, I'm struck by the strange beauty of the moment: Our own flock of girls, faces lit by morning light, watching Ah-Suk perform a ceremony that embodies refinement and culture;
the sky, which still wears mourning gray; the sirens and the trumpets, punctuating the silence.

I may have no notion of what's in the beans for me now, with everything upside down and sideways. But one thing I know is that I belong in this moment.

Headmistress Crouch frowns when she tastes the brew, which is no doubt different than the Ceylon she is expecting. I can smell the dandelion Ah-Suk put in, mixed with something I've not smelled before, like toasted mushrooms. But then the headmistress's face relaxes, and she accepts another cup, and then a third.

“That was unusual tea,” she murmurs, closing her eyes. Soon, she is breathing deeply.

A Boston angles for a look into the teapot. “Oh please, may we have some tea, too? We could have a tea party!”

Ah-Suk barks in Cantonese, “Let us help this woman into her tent.”

Headmistress Crouch is lighter than I expect. Katie, Francesca, and I do the honors. Once she is inside, Ah-Suk squats in the doorway. The girls cluster behind him, bobbing this way and that for a closer look at Katie and Francesca arranging her into a comfortable position.

“It's not proper for me to be in this tent with a sleeping lady. You must do it.” He passes me one of the small cloth bags used to hold his herbs.

“Me?” My stomach lurches at the thought.

“Place these on her back where she is unlikely to see the marks.” He doesn't bother to whisper, as no one can understand
him, anyway. “The leeches deposit a numbing substance before they bite, so she won't feel them. They will detach by themselves when they are full, so do not pry them off, or you may cause infection.”

I think about all the leeches we pulled off prematurely yesterday. My skin suddenly feels very itchy. Maybe we're all dying of the plague this very instant.

“Mercy, are you paying attention?”

“Yes, Ah-Suk.”

“Use the remaining tea in this cup to get the blood to clot afterward, or it will bleed for hours. Very messy.”

“Okay,” I say in a shaky voice, imagining Headmistress Crouch waking up in a pool of her own blood. “Where will you be?”

“Outside.” His Cantonese is heavy with sarcasm. “Hosting a tea party.”

He snorts loudly, then ties the tent door closed. I stare at the canvas in amazement. That sly Dr. Gunn understands English after all.

FRANCESCA, KATIE AND I MANAGE to unbutton Headmistress Crouch's shirt without waking her. Thankfully, her corset already lies in a corner of her tent. Harry has disappeared, probably to Canada. I show the girls the wiggling bag of leeches, and Francesca turns a pale shade of green.

“Why don't you grab some of that rice porridge for us before everyone eats it?” I suggest, though I doubt I will be able to eat until next month.

Francesca shakes her head. “No. I'll help you. Katie, you go look after Harry.”

“All right. Here's mud in your eye, suckers,” Katie whispers to the bag of leeches, then leaves.

I pluck up a blob. It reminds me of the gallbladder Ma would pull out of the chicken, one of the few pieces she would discard. When the leech begins to squirm, my own gallbladder shudders in response. I force myself to focus on Headmistress Crouch's shoulder blades, which look like shark fins, while I very carefully stick the suckers to her veined back.

With a blank expression one toe away from horror, Francesca helps me place the leeches as briskly as layering pepperoni on a pizza.

I thought being leeched was the most repulsive thing that could happen to me, but I was wrong. Watching leeches gorge themselves on someone else's blood, even if that blood belongs to someone you dislike
 . . .
that takes the biscuit.

No wonder Tom would rather fly than step into his father's shoes.

“I'll watch her; you go eat,” I say quietly, giving Francesca an excuse to leave. No need for both of us to suffer.

“Okay. How long do you think they're going to take?”

“Half an hour? An hour?” Ah-Suk's appointments never lasted longer than that.

“That's good. We have a dinner to plan. I'll be back soon.”

The seconds drag on. Every time a siren goes off or a trumpet blares, I jump, worried that she will wake up and find me leeching her.

I think about Ba again. Maybe I can somehow telegraph my location to him. All he has to do is make it to the park. He'll see the Missing People Books and figure out where I am. And if he doesn't, I will look for him.

Soon enough, Francesca pokes her head back in. “I have some porridge for you. Come out and eat.”

We carefully trade places. Once I'm outside, I inhale the cold San Francisco air. The porridge is still warm, and despite my disgust over the leeches, I find my appetite has boomeranged back to me. I down it hungrily.

“Mercy!” Francesca hisses from inside the tent.

Back I go. The first of the leeches is starting to pill. I hardly breathe, counting the seconds, silently urging those leeches to
snap the buggy whip. If Headmistress Crouch woke up right now, there's no explanation for what we're doing that doesn't sound worse than what we're actually doing. She could have us arrested for unlawful leeching. If there wasn't already a law, they'd make one up special for me.

The leech rolls off, and I drop it into the bag while Francesca dabs the compress of cooled tea onto her back. One by one, the other leeches haul anchor. We dry her back, freezing at every pause in her breathing, every twitch of her nose.

When all the wounds have stopped bleeding, we redress her, moving with painstakingly slow movements.

Finally, when every button is secure and every ribbon tied, Headmistress Crouch starts to snore. Francesca tosses me an exasperated look. Guess Ah-Suk's sleeping potion really did pack a wallop.

The sun is on full glare by the time we leave her tent.

Ah-Suk is showing the girls a game of stone tossing, using very good English. Elodie, however, is still writing in her book. I wonder if her hand, the book, or her pencil will give out first. Georgina hits her mark with a stone, and the others begin clapping.

When they see us, Ah-Suk, Harry, and Katie hurry over. Ah-Suk glances inside Headmistress Crouch's tent then tells me in Cantonese, “Best physician now is Dr. Time.”

“Thank you, Ah-Suk.”

He nods, then sets off back toward his camp.

“What happened? Is she still sleeping?” Katie asks.

“Yes. All's well for now.” I hold the bag of leeches behind my
back. The thought that it's filled with Headmistress Crouch's blood picks up the hairs of my skin. Now all that's left to do is sacrifice a pig and tie a hairy gourd to my leg and I will be the “heathen” she wants me to be.

“We're ready to start ‘borrowing' whenever you are,” says Katie.

Harry shivers and crosses her arms tightly. Her sleeve buttons are missing, exposing arms covered in itchy leech welts, and her spectacles hang crookedly on her nose. Maybe taking her isn't such a great idea. There's a rawness about Harry lately that makes me want to protect her, like a turtle whose shell is still soft. But wherever Katie goes, Harry goes.

“The two of you should stay here,” I tell them. “We need someone in charge of the ground troops. Someone to make sure the firewood gets collected. We need to invite guests and spruce up the place.”

Katie wrinkles her nose. “We could put Georgina in charge of that.”

I catch Francesca's eye and give her a meaningful look. It doesn't take her long to catch on. “But Georgina doesn't know the first thing about milking a cow,” she says in her calm way. “And ours looks like she could use some more relief.”

Katie looks in the direction of the cypress tree, where Minnie Mae is trying to feed the cow some long grass. “I nearly forgot about Forgivus! The more you milk a cow, the more it gives, you know. Cows are nice that way.”

Forgivus? I suppose it's as good a name as any.

“Maybe we had better stay. Are you sure you don't need us?”

“We'll manage,” I assure her. “We'll be less conspicuous if there are only two of us, anyway.”

“Okay, then, good luck.” They make their way back to the twin fires.

“I need to throw the leeches in the river,” I tell Francesca.

She makes a face. “And I need to borrow Headmistress Crouch's hat. We might need a cupboard for the goods.”

Fresh wounds plague the street with the delicatessen where we first found the sassafras: A felled tree, tipped-over streetlamps, and a mountain of bricks spill into the street. The tiger and the dragon must have returned here, and traffic has ceased completely. We pick our way through the rubble.

The deli is still standing, though the broken bottles in front of the shop have been swept to the side. Francesca eyes a broom leaning against the outer wall. “Someone tried to clean up.”

“They must have realized it's a losing battle.” Inside, the place looks even messier than before. The green awning has fallen completely, hiding the door like a giant fig leaf.

“Maybe they'll be back.”

“Well, let's not waste time.” I quickly glance around before ducking in, sweeping my gaze over every dark corner and hidey-hole. The place seems deserted.

A moment later, Francesca follows.

The reek of sour wine mingles with the woody scent of sawdust. We stick to the front should the ceiling begin to collapse
like last time. I stop at a barrel full of salami and hard cheeses while Francesca rummages through a basket filled with picnic linens and packaged herbs.

“Take the salamis from Abbiati. The Abbascia is too peppery.”

I have to squint to make out the fine writing along the salami wrappings. They look exactly the same minus a few letters. “Does it really matter?”

She gives me a hard look. I manage to find two Abbiati salamis and stuff one up each sleeve. This will impede movement, but as long as I remember to hold my sleeves, I can keep them from shooting out. Into my boots, I slip wooden spoons. I hide two oranges, well, in the most logical place to put two oranges. No one will be the wiser. Last, I jam two packets of cheese into my pants pockets.

Francesca removes her hat and places a bag of pasta on top of her head, plus a round container of crackers that fits in the bowl of the hat perfectly. She pulls the hat down to cover her ears. The pockets of her dress outsize my pants pockets, and she is able to stuff in several packages of dried red discs she says are tomatoes.

Weighing a few pounds heavier than when we came in, I ask, “You ready?”

Francesca tucks in the strings of her bag of pasta, which are dripping onto her forehead. Her cheeks are flushed, and there's a mischievous glint in her gaze. “Do you have room for this cinnamon?”

“If it's small enough, I might be able to slip it in my sock.”

Carefully, without upsetting her hat, she crouches, tucking the slim packet of cinnamon sticks into my sock. She rises just as slowly. I frown at the bag of pasta creeping over her forehead, while she eyes my new chest.

“I never felt so womanly in my life,” I say.

“Don't make me laugh.”

“Don't make
me
laugh. Your pasta's showing.”

“Oh!” With one hand clasped to her hat, she points to a spot high on the shelf. A hairline fracture jags along the wall, and my heart clutches, wondering if the ceiling is about to fall.

“Did you hear something?”

“No. It's dried porcini—my favorite kind of mushroom!”

I peer up at the sack, which is the size of a loaf of bread.

“I can't reach it. I need a stool.” Her gaze sweeps around the room, landing on a barrel.

“Er, I love a good mushroom, but where are you going to put that?”

“I don't know, but I must have it. These are the best porcinis, from Parma. They're heaven on the tongue.” Her eyes gleam, and you'd think that sack contained a pound of jade by the way she was looking at it. She takes off her hat and tries to push the barrel, but it's heavy and smashed in on one side.

I help her, but the drum won't budge. What would Tom do?
A simple solution is always on hand for those who search,
I hear him say. “Wait. I have another way.”

Glass shards and dried pasta crunch underfoot. With great care, I step around a spilled jar of pickled onions, fetch the
broom outside the deli, then work my way back to her. “I better hear angels singing when I taste these mushrooms.” Using the broom's handle, I knock the sack off the shelf into her waiting arms.

She wraps it in one of the picnic linens, and in her arms, it looks just like a swaddled infant. I help her fix her hat of pasta and crackers back upon her head, and then we move to the exit.

We pick our way through the ruptured streets, edging around felled trees and nests of cables. More than smoke seasons the air—the scent of burning rubber, of newly exposed earth, of sewage. At the intersection, we head south back toward the park, passing a pack of old ladies holding chickens, and one brass bust of Theodore Roosevelt.

“You suppose they're looting?” I whisper.

Francesca snorts. “The chickens? Or Teddy Roosevelt?”

I am about to answer
chickens
, but then again, why not Teddy Roosevelt? If the earthquake has shown me anything, it's that it is not always easy to predict what people value. Francesca would risk a fall off a barrel for a bag of mushrooms. Harry grabbed her pillow. I have my penny, and that's all I need, though I suppose it would've been nice to have another pair of socks.

A pair of horses kicks up clouds of dust as they gallop by. When the air clears, I spot two soldiers across the street in dark shirts and tan trousers, with utility belts around the waist and brown hats with wide rims. Rifles are slung across their backs. They're bent over, wrapping something into a tarp. A body.

“Francesca,” I hiss.

She sharply inhales.

“Just walk casually,” I tell her. They would suspect us for sure if we turned around. They would question us, maybe search us, and then what?

Each step is a torment. Though I want to flee, Francesca can only walk so fast with her hat full of crackers and pasta, and the baby in her arms. The salamis prevent me from bending my elbows, but I try to look natural.

The soldiers glance up as we approach. May the object of their interest be Francesca's beauty rather than, say, her booty. When their glances become stares, fear drags a cold finger down my back.

Dear God, why did we take such a risk?
If we hadn't been so greedy, we wouldn't be walking at such a glacial pace.

The next street lies another twenty paces ahead. We'll turn a corner, ditch the hat, then run. Another step, just another step.

To our right, houses have been jolted forward so they look as though they're leering at us with their broken-window eyes and gaping-door mouths.

After another few paces, we pass the soldiers, and soon we're rounding the corner.

With a snarl, something leaps from one of the broken windows and comes flying toward us in a blur of brown and black fur.

“Oh my Lord!” Francesca stumbles into the street but manages to keep her hat on her head. I try to follow, but the dog circles me, barking like crazy. Saliva drips from its jaw, a jaw I can't help thinking would easily fit over my head. “Easy, fella.” My voice quavers, and I try not to look it in the eye.