Authors: Win Blevins
She walked into some boulders. Here she could be out of sight, private, to do her meditation and do the
puja
. She set the altar on a rock, put cedar and sage on it, and lit them with a match. She had discovered that cedar and sage made not a bad incense. She smelled the thick, rich odor of the plants and sat in the lotus position.
She spoke in a formal tone:
“
O Mahakala! Thou art fond of cremation grounds; so I have turned my heart into one
That Thou, a resident of cremation grounds, may dance there unceasingly.
”
Sun Moon did not merely repeat words lazily, but made herself think of their meaning.
My very heart is the fire of a funeral pyre,
she went on silently, in her mind.
It is littered with the ashes of bodies. Trample the conqueror of death, and come dancing into my heart
.
Sun Moon breathed in deep, and let all the air out. It was always hard for her to pray for the embrace of death. Yet if she were to pass beyond her fear of death, if she were to attain understanding that death and life are one, that destruction and creation are one, that mother and murderer are one, she must. Every day she prayed with half a heart, hoping that affirmation lay somewhere beyond.
She lowered her eyes to the dust at the foot of the boulder and began to pay attention to her breathing. After a few breaths the words came without her willing them:
Om mani padme hung
…
As usual, Sun Moon came to the fire for food only at the end of supper. Burton always disliked that, the way she kept herself apart. In his opinion it was both arrogance and self-effacement. Sun Moon put herself last. None of the white people took exception—the natural way of things, the way they saw it. They never realized that Sun Moon was testing, noticing, and judging. He watched her start her pot of tea. Every evening she made tea from a plant called ephedra and known commonly as Mormon tea. Long since she had learned that no one else would drink it. When the pot was on the fire, she helped herself to stew.
The stew was a great relief to Burton. Every night they ate the very salty jerked meat brought from Salt Lake City, which Burton detested. Tonight the DeSelies added prairie turnips (a root vegetable), fresh wild onions, and other vegetables. Harold gave a few pounds of potatoes. The DeSelies professed themselves grateful for the meat, which the captain thought scarcely credible, and Burton found himself cringingly grateful for anything other than briny meat.
Sun Moon sat alone on a low boulder, holding herself apart with the language of body and eyes. How graceful she was! Burton never tired of watching her. Her eyes spoke of serenity, her scar of violence.
“Sister,” he said in the Tibetan language, “may I join you?”
She smiled at him, and Burton sat on her rock.
“Sister,” he began, “I believe we will get to California. Three weeks
to Virginia City, a rest, and from there a stagecoach to San Francisco. It doesn’t look difficult.”
“Porter Rockwell,” she said simply, eyeing Burton like a foolish child.
“Yes, I understand. After Brother Young keeps him a month, though, he’ll never catch us. If he even tries.”
She looked off into the twilight, her face unreadable.
What has happened to this woman?
Burton wondered. It was more than his fertile mind could imagine—the convent as a mere girl, a decade of learning, then the madness. Abduction, definitely. Rape? Probably. Shipment to Canton and across the Pacific. More rape? Perhaps. Escape. And now the journey back? Even a fanciful mind couldn’t wrap itself around all that.
I admire you
.
“When we get to San Francisco, I will give you money. Passage to China is not an imposing sum. I see it as tribute your spirit commands.”
She looked at him, and he saw her mind move behind her dark eyes. Though she had a few coins, doubtless stolen, the amount was piddling. “Thank you very much, Sir Richard,” she said.
They held each other’s eyes.
At last she went on, “Would passage to India be possible?”
“Whatever you prefer. Where?”
“Calcutta,” she said.
Yes, the mouth of the Ganges. She was thinking of it as a pilgrimage. He wondered how good a conception her scholar’s mind held of the journey done that way. Calcutta, north through mountains to Bhutan, north again across the highest mountains in the world. Then Lhasa. Yes, he understood, she wanted to visit the holy city of her people, perhaps to see the Dalai Lama. But then a long journey eastward to Kham, her home country. More difficult than going through China.
She spoke with an edge he’d never heard. “I will not go near the Chinese.” Hatred. Yes, hatred. Fascinating. Burton gave thanks in his mind to Allah for the endless fascination that is the world. So a longer journey, but safer, and far more consoling to the spirit.
“I will give you funds, Sister.” In the firelight he thought he saw tears shine in eyes long dry. She turned away. So many ways to keep privacy, so many ways to avoid human contact, so many ways to hide the soul…
Burton didn’t know why, but he wondered whether she would go to Calcutta, Lhasa, and her home, the convent at Zorgai. So far, so many occasions for missteps, so many choices—opportunities as wide as the
world itself. From Tibet to America, halfway around the globe—that was wildly improbable, more a fantasy even than the tales of Arabian nights he loved. Return trip? That pushed the mind from fascination to skepticism. He could not imagine it.
The fiddle struck the first notes. It called to the legs, “Come dance!”
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
I eyed the newcomers. They were all men, a horseback outfit heading back to the States fast, everyone broke and dissatisfied. One of ’em said to me, “If I can ever get back to Missouri, I’ll gladly eat out of the trough with my hogs.”
Folks going West on the trail those years held Californy as a golden land, a place of fulfillment of dreams. You didn’t hear many good words about the place from the folks headed back East. Grumble, grumble, bitch, bitch. Why did the ones headed West keep going? Why didn’t they set themselves down, right there in camp, have a good think, and turn around? The country between the deserts and Missouri was thick with buffalo—nobody would have starved going back. And plenty of good places between here and there to settle down.
It was partly the War Between the States. The talk of the West in those years was one of two subjects, war in the East, gold and silver in the West.
What I noticed was that people see dreams larger than what’s in front of their faces. Dreams have a powerful hold on us human creatures, for good and for bad. Jesus of Nazareth had a dream, they say. So did Joseph Smith. So did Genghis Khan. The question is, what’s the dream? What human feeling does it come from? I think Jesus’ dream came from love. Old Khan’s came from the lust for power. The California rush for gold and Washo rush for silver came from greed. That made all the difference.
At the time, though, I told myself us mismatched three were different. We were sensible.
Later I laughed at myself. No, the engines of our trip weren’t dreams. Sun Moon was only looking for a way to go home to Tibet. I was only looking to find the people I was born to, or figure where and how I belonged on this Earth. Sir Richard was only trying to get known as a big-time author and explorer. No dreams there!
When Reeshaw struck up the music, I grabbed my new banjo, new to me, and dived in with a frenzy of notes. Come! Get those feet going! Hoof it! Let’s have a big time!
Everybody cut it up handsome. Since the newcomers were all male, there was a right shortage of females. Every woman had a partner waiting for the next dance. Some of the men tied bandannas on their sleeves and danced the female part temporary-like. Annabelle was Jeehosaphat popular, of course, and didn’t she look jimmy-joomy! Second was Root. Instead of slowing her down, her years seemed to give her a kind of dignity and strength. Root had something that her daughter-in-laws hadn’t risen up to yet.
Reeshaw and I took turns trying to shine. He’d do a fiddle tune, usually one of his Frenchy paddlin’ songs, and I’d back him up. Then we’d switch and I’d take the lead. I went strictly for tunes everybody knew, “Dinah Had a Wooden Leg,” “Irish Washer Woman,” “Tulsy Waltz,” “Fort Smith Rag,” and all like that. It was hard to watch Annabelle waltzing with another man during “Tulsy.” But heckahoy, I druther play with sounds in my mind than bounce around on my legs. Which has been fateful for me.
When I started on one ballad, “The Little Log Cabin in the Lane,” Reeshaw slid over and got Root. They spun slow, they allemanded, they do-si-doed, they promenaded, they dipped, and they rose through the night air, lit handsome by the fire. Reeshaw’s fine, long, thick, black hair shone in the flames, and Root looked statuesque. He danced like he was proud to show her off, and she danced like she was proud to be led by such a man. It made me feel better about the upshot of marriage than ever I had, up to then.
I headed straight into another ballad, thinking I’d enjoy watching them again. Reeshaw had other ideas, though. He bounded over and offered a hand to Sun Moon.
She drew back—actually, drew back without moving, in that way she had.
His hand rose and banged back to level again, inviting, demanding. He smiled like a sun.
She hesitated.
Reeshaw picked her up by the waist, held her high in his big hands, and set on her the dance ground.
She followed his lead.
Root clapped her hands. I think everybody was watching, on the sly or straight on.
Reeshaw just swept her along, not allowing any mistakes. Sun Moon moved her tiny feet, and after a bit I saw that she was right in rhythm, and nimble.
Then I beheld the looks on the faces of the others. Our folks—Harold, Muley, Carlson—were embarrassed. Sun Moon didn’t really figure in their world. They generally acted like she wasn’t around. Reeshaw putting her in the center threw them off.
The newcomers, though, they were tickled. Kept trying not to grin at each other, at the same time avoiding Root’s eyes. Then I caught on. Back in Californy, if a white man danced with a Chinee woman, it meant only one thing, whoop-dee-doo in a back room right quick. They’d likely done it themselves.
That made me mad. When I finished the tune, I nodded Reeshaw toward his fiddle, set down the banjo, and took both of Sun Moon’s hands. Reeshaw sashayed into a slow waltz. I was a not-bad dancer, and I think Sun Moon and I got through it with our dignity in place. It wasn’t until we were through that I noticed everyone had stopped dancing and was just watching us. So I kept her hands and waited for the next tune.
Imagine my surprise when it came from the banjo. One of the Missouri-bound fellas was pickin’, a lanky youth with a homely face that was all nose and Adam’s apple. His fingers just naturally set feet to flying, and right quick every grown-up in the place was whirling and twirling. I jumped around with Sun Moon, and we bumped each other hard only once. She laughed, which was a pleasure to see.
That picker was good to hear, a real music man.
At the tune’s end he says, “Here’s a Spanyard song I heerd in Californy.” After that he had a Basque song, a German song, even a Danish song. By that time he’d wore us out, and everyone was setting on the ground. He sang the fine old song “John Anderson, My Jo.” It was too
beautiful to do anything but listen anyway. At the end he said softly, “Irish.”
Said Sun Moon into the silence, “How about Chinese?”
Well, heckahoy It got quiet enough to hear the earth breathe. Chinese? Outrageous! I could see the looks around the fire. Give one of those yellow skins an inch and they’ll act like damn fools.
The picker was not flabbergasted. He did look hard at Sun Moon first. “B’lieve I got one,” he says soft-like.
It was the same tune he’d just picked, only the words were changed.
“
John Chinaman, my jo, John
You’re coming precious fast.
Each ship that sails from Shanghai brings
An increase on the last.
And when you’ll stop invading us
I’m blest, now, if I know.
You’ll outnumber us poor Yankees,
John Chinaman, my jo.
”
Everybody was ashamed to look at each other or at Sun Moon. She had that glazed look on her face that came sometimes, like she didn’t want to know what was going on, she refused to credit what was right there. I felt for her.
There were other verses, but the picker didn’t go on. His heart didn’t seem that mean. Instead he flabbergasted everyone by saying, “They’s a lot of songs
about
the Chinese in Californy, Ma’am. Some of ’em are meant funny, mostly poking fun at queues, so maybe not funny to your ears. Some of ’em are meant harsh, ’cause Chinamen takes white men’s jobs. There’s one I know as is sympathetic, ‘John Chinaman’s Appeal.’”
We were all still struck silent, and in the silence he launched into the old tune “Umbrella Courtship,” with new words.
“
American, now mind my song,
If you would but hear me sing,
And I will tell you of the wrong
That happened unto Gee Sing.
In fifty-two I left my home
—
I bid farewell to Hong Kong
—
I started with Cup Gee to roam
To the land where they use the long tom.
”
Then came a chorus that was silly but fun and not meant to hurt.
“
O ching hi ku tong me ching ching
O ching hi ku tong chi do,
Cup Gee hi ku tong mo ching ching,
Then what could Gee or I do?
”
It went on to tell the story of how Gee Sing came to San Francisco. Starving, he ate a dog and got arrested and fined. He went to the gold-fields and got chased off. Went to another mining camp and the Know Nothings wouldn’t let him stay. Went to Weaverville and got driven off by other Chinamen. Went to Yreka, set up a laundry, and went broke. Finally went home:
“
Oh, now, my friends, I’m going away
From this infernal place, Sir;
The balance of my days I’ll stay
With the celestial race, Sir.
I’ll go to raising rice and tea;
I’ll be a heathen ever,
For Christians all have treated me
As men should be used never.
”
At this awkward moment the dance broke up. People acted sheepish and wandered off to their wagons to sleep. The only one made any gesture toward Sun Moon was Root, who walked right up and gave her a hug. Being of another race herself, probably, Root understood. Reeshaw gave Sun Moon a touch on the shoulder, too. Sun Moon stood stiffish, not knowing how to react to this Frenchy affection.
Then I noticed Annabelle walking quiet into the bushes. With the picker. My heart twisted on itself. I let my breath out, and it eased some. Guess I’d known all along how Annabelle was.
I sat on a rock and moped. After a while I decided to turn my mind to something useful. Never mind what I felt about the picker right now. What must Sun Moon’s feelings be? He had meant both kind and unkind, seemed like, songs on both sides. Even his notion of kind, of course, wasn’t much kind—yeah, it’s not fair, but the best thing to do is get your carcass off this continent and go back to your own.
Part of the strangeness, naturally, was that Sun Moon wasn’t Chinese.
She hated the Chinese, or at least some Chinese, and she had way more reason than anyone here for that hatred. Yet all her time in America she’d been treated like one of the race she hated. I wondered how that made her feel about hate.
Life was getting me used to strange, that’s for sure. It’s kept doing that in the decades since. O strange, O wondrous, O enchantment! O Flabbergastonia!
Well, since thinking is not living, I got up and went over to her. She looked up into my face, her eyes big as moons, excuse the expression. “I’m sorry,” I said.
She nodded. Sorry wasn’t an idea she spent a lot of time on. She held my look for a moment, and I guess that was her way of showing acceptance. “Drum dry now,” she said.
Peculiar. I was worrying about her, and she had a thought for me.
Yep, the drum.
I owe you that. Guess I owe us that
.
The hide felt good and tight. I pushed at it with my fingers, then a flat hand. It was springy. I walked away from the fire so I could see into the darkness, Moon behind me. I didn’t know where I wanted to sit to beat the drum. Above camp I could see a rock jutting up like a thumb, short, thick, and stubby. That looked right to me.
The moon lent me plenty of light to pick my way up there among the sagebrushes and other scrub—it was full, perfectly round, no nibbled part at the lower left showing it hadn’t quite arrived, nor no nibbled part on the upper right showing it had just passed full. It was
full
.
Halfway I noticed Sun Moon was still a few steps behind. “I need to do this alone,” I said.
I’m not any Bon Poh pah woh
. She nodded and turned back. I knew she could hear the drum in camp, and would listen, but I still wanted to make the music by myself.
I chuckled. I thought,
Two bits somebody will complain at me tomorrow morning for making devil drum all night, keeping decent folk awake with heathen stuff
. I won the bet, because that’s what happened. It was Muley complained.
At first I felt awkward and self-conscious. Plenty quick that sloughed off, though. Didn’t matter what I did with the drum, ’cept whatever I felt like. I tried things out. Boom-boom-bOOm-BOOM, each one getting louder, then repeating the four. Tappety-tappety-tappety-tappety real fast, almost like a rattle. TUM-tuh-tuh, TUM-tuh-tuh, TUM-tuh-tuh, a three-beat rhythm. For a while I put down the beater Sun Moon gave me
and tried it with my hands. Turned out, though, I wanted the beater—wanted to send those sounds right out across the desert in all four directions, right down to the center of the Earth, right up to the sky.
I tried some more rhythms. I shifted beat in the middle of things, went back, circled around, crossed in a new rhythm taking turns with my bare hand and the beater, came home to the first rhythm, stronger. Fooling around with rhythms was fun. More than fun.
I looked up at the moon and held my eyes there.
Maybe,
I thought,
I can send my beat all the way to the moon
. I’ve always liked to imagine the music we make never stops. It goes from here to there in the sky, and further, and further, fast but still using up time. I imagine the sounds pushing the air, invisible as wind, and singing when it arrives at the moon and the stars. Where does the music ever stop? Nowhere. Wind pushes wherever there’s a sky, and that goes on forever. Maybe the moon is magic, and if I could go up there, I’d hear all the music ever made, whispering round and round the moon, moon, moon.
So I sent my rhythms to the sky. I thought of my heartbeat and sent that. I thought of the heartbeats of everyone in camp and sent them. I thought of all the heartbeats of all the people in the world, about one every second, and I heard them all in my imagination, one big life, beating, beating, beating. I sent them all to the full moon. After a while all the heartbeats of all the animals joined in, hurling the head of my stick onto that vibrating skin. For a while I imagined the whole earth was beating, beating, beating, sending the thump of its life to the moon.
I did that for a long time, and a long time, and a long, long time.