White Jade Tiger Page 7

  “Her eyes are foreign and she has a big nose,” Keung retorted. “And she’s a girl!”

  “Her eyes do have a foreign look about them,” Dragon Maker agreed, “but they are as dark as yours. Her skin is tanned and she is tall. Almost as tall as you, Keung. She wears the clothes of a coolie and her hands are not too soft.”

  Jasmine rubbed her calluses and congratulated herself for learning to chop wood.

  Dragon Maker pulled down the brim of her hat. “If you keep it low, the shadow will hide your eyes and hopefully your nose. There is nothing else we can do about the nose.”

  “It’s not that big,” Jasmine said. “Don’t worry, I’ll stay out of the way. And don’t worry because I’m a girl. Times have changed, you know.” She spoke so emphatically neither Keung nor Dragon Maker dared to ask what she meant.

  “A fiery spirit!” Dragon Maker chuckled. “Tread cautiously with this one, Keung. And see that she doesn’t talk too much.” He picked up her backpack and frowned at the strange assortment of zippered pockets, buckles and straps. “You cannot take this, not if you wish to be inconspicuous.” He pointed to her watch. “And leave that behind. It would attract too much attention.” He filled a cotton bag with a variety of useful items, attached it to a bamboo pole and gave it to her.

  “And here is your bag and some money,” he said, handing Keung a small pouch.

  “We’ll return,” said Keung, “no matter what we find.”

  “Be very careful,” Dragon Maker said gravely. “Your eyes are not the only ones seeking the white jade tiger.”

  Jasmine was astonished by Dragon Maker’s words. “The white jade tiger!” she exclaimed as they set out. “I know about it from my dreams. But how— I mean, how does Dragon Maker know about it? And what does it have to do with you?”

  “My father has the tiger.”

  “You mean—”

  “Yes. That’s why it’s so important to return it to Bright Jade’s grave. To end this wretched curse on my family.” He explained how his father had found it and kept it. And how Blue-Scar Wong wanted it.

  “But Blue-Scar will know where you’ve gone. He’ll follow you. Us, I mean. We’ll lead him right to it.”

  “Not if we’re careful. And he’ll be looking for me alone. Maybe it is a good thing you’re coming.”

  But Jasmine remembered the night in the gambling den, and felt certain Keung was wrong. Blue-Scar mould be looking for both of them. In his eyes, she wasn’t just another coolie.

  Chapter 12

  Chinatown was waking up. Voices rose from the ravine, from the dirt road, from storefronts, from the hidden recesses of shacks and alleys, from wooden balconies projecting over the boardwalks. Horses pulling watercarts stirred up clouds of dust; peddlers hurried by with baskets slung on poles, filled with fish or vegetables; men carrying loads of clean laundry jog-trotted out of Chinatown to make deliveries, their bamboo poles bending up and down across their shoulders.

  Jasmine studied their faces. Some were dark tan, some were pale, even paler than hers. Some were full and round with pug noses, some were thin and angular with high cheekbones. Everyone had dark eyes. Everyone had a pigtail. Many were short, so being tall for her age made her roughly the same size. And they all wore baggy pants and loose jackets like hers. She didn’t feel the least bit conspicuous. But one thing did strike her as odd. “There aren’t any women. No girls, anywhere.”

  “Only merchants can afford to bring their wives from China,” Keung said, “and they keep them inside their homes. Otherwise they might be kidnapped.”

  The air was filled with the smells of fish, drying seaweed, herbs, and vegetables frying in hot oil. Through it all drifted the sweetish odour Jasmine had noticed before. Boiling potatoes? Or was it more like roasted peanuts? “What is that smell?” she asked.

  “Opium,” Keung replied. “Raw opium is cooked here, in sheds behind the stores.”

  “Cooked?”

  He nodded. “In boiling water for about twelve hours, until it turns to jelly. Then it’s put in cans and sold.”

  “But opium’s a drug. Isn’t it against the law?”

  Keung looked surprised. “No, it’s a very important business. Very profitable. There are many opium factories here and many opium dens.”

  A frenzy of sawing and hammering caught Jasmine’s attention, and she looked up the street to see a building under construction.

  “That’s the new Chinese theatre,” Keung explained. “It might be finished when we come back Then we’ll see some Chinese opera.”

  They made their way along the waterfront, crowded with wharves and buildings. Importers and wholesale dealers sold provisions from Europe and the Far East, and proudly advertised their ability to fill orders for everything from codfish to candles to coal oil. Horses waited patiently outside brick buildings, or clomped along the road pulling wagons, carriages and hacks of every description. Well-dressed gentlemen in bowler hats passed native Indians carrying bags of clams and sacks of salmon. A herd of cattle was being driven along Wharf Street, their bellows mingling with the shrieking blasts of boat whistles in the harbour.

  Soon they reached the Hudson’s Bay Company wharf where the William Irving was docked. Keung paid for their tickets, one dollar each for deck passage to Yale. As they boarded the sternwheeler, Jasmine could feel the stares of the white passengers. Two men blocked their way to the stern, one burly, the other tall with a hawk-like face. “Make way for the Celestials,” Burly snickered. But neither man moved, forcing them to duck under a lifeboat and clamber over coils of rope to get by.

  “Finest steamer of the day, the William Irving,” Jasmine heard Burly remark. “Built in 1880. A real beauty. First trip, you should’ve seen the carry on. Flags and 21-gun salutes at every stop along the river. And Captain Irving passin’ out free beer and whisky like there was no tomorrow. Even had a band! Course, once the currents got rough the band eased off some, I can tell you.”

  Passengers continued to stream aboard the sternwheeler, many heading for cabins and salons. Freight was loaded on too, including the forty-odd head of cattle.

  Finally, the high-pitched screech of the steam whistle signalled the boat’s departure, and the paddle-wheel slowly churned its way out of the harbour. Across the water, Jasmine saw that the Johnson Street Bridge was gone. Only a footbridge connected the town to the Indian settlement where her aunt now lived. The Legislative Buildings were gone, too, at least the ones she knew. In their place were the wood and brick structures she’d seen in pictures, the ones known as the “Birdcages”.

  And the Empress Hotel was gone! A wooden bridge crossed the bay and mudflats where the Empress and Causeway now stood. From the number of tin cans and bottles oozing in the mud, it looked as though the place was used as a dumping ground. And that’s where they built that ritzy hotel? She couldn’t believe it.

  The red-brick Customs House was still there, perched prominently on the waterfront. It looked large and grand, not dwarfed by highrises and office blocks. And one distant landmark was familiar. “Look,” she cried happily, pointing to the hills west of Victoria. “That’s where I’m from. And they still look the same.”

  Keung looked at her strangely, but said nothing.

  “Dangerous way to travel.” The burly man’s voice carried over the swish of water as the steamer headed into the strait. “Remember the Fort Yale back in ’61? Blown to shambles, she was.”

  “Boiler explosion, wasn’t it? Two miles above Hope. Yessir, the captain and four passengers was beyond hope, that time.”

  Burly laughed. “Blown to shambles, along with the Indians and Chinamen. How many? Oh gosh, I dunno. Indians and Chinamen were never counted.”

  Jasmine felt a slow rage begin to simmer. How could they talk like that?

  “Course, you have to expect them explosions from time to time,” Hawk-face said. “Boilers aren’t made too sturdy. And captains like to go full-steam ahead with the safety-valve held down tight.” Burly stepped close
r to Jasmine. Quickly, she lowered her head. “Yer lookin’ mighty nervous there, John. Afraid this steamer’s gonna blow? We’ll have chop suey then, alright.”

  She glanced at Keung but his face was blank, unreadable.

  Burly laughed heartily and yanked on her braid. “Course, if you don’t like it, you can go home.”

  Hawk-face joined in the laughter. “Wish they’d all go home.”

  Jasmine’s face burned, in spite of the cool breeze blowing off the water. She dug her nails into her clenched fists, afraid the rage would boil over.

  “This spring alone over 3000 Chinamen came to Victoria. 3000!” Burly shook his head in disgust. “Read it in the Colonist.The place is sloppin’ over.”

  “Sloppin’ over!” Hawk-face slapped the railing to punctuate his laughter. “You sure it’s chop suey, not slop chuey?”

  Burly smacked him on the back, guffawing at the play on words. “C’mon, let’s move to the other side. There’s somethin’ about the smell around here...”

  Jasmine took a deep breath, fighting for control. She wanted to lash out at them, strike them down with the force of her words. But something more than rage smouldered inside.

  “I know it hurts,” Keung said as the men walked away. “I didn’t understand the words, but I understood their meaning.

  She swallowed hard. “But why do they talk like that? I don’t get it. They don’t even know us.”

  “That’s why,” Keung said. “It’s because they don’t know us that they do talk like that.”

  “Why did they call me John?” Jasmine wondered.

  “Many whites call us that,” Keung replied. “Or Celestial. Or worse.” He looked across the water and shook his head sadly. “They don’t want us here. In Victoria we can’t even work for the city. An old friend of Dragon Maker used to light the street lamps on James Bay. He was fired as soon as a white man was found to do the job. No, they don’t want us. But they won’t have the railroad without us. I’m afraid of what will happen when it’s finished.”

  “What will happen? Well, you’ll stay. Maybe not you, Keung, but many Chinese will stay and become teachers and doctors and mayors and—”

  “And man will walk on the moon,” he said bitterly.

  Jasmine wanted to shout, Yes! That will happen too! But the expression on his face clearly indicated his desire to drop the subject.

  The afternoon stretched on as the sternwheeler threaded its way through the islands that dotted the Gulf of Georgia between Victoria and the mainland. For a long time they stood in silence, watching the pale shades of purple and gold linger on distant hilltops.

  By nightfall, the William Irving had reached the muddy Fraser. “What place is that?” Jasmine wondered, pointing to a small town rising steeply above the river.

  “I think that’s Saltwater City. New Westminster, as the barbarians call it.” Keung smiled grimly. He was the barbarian now. He knew the whites saw him as an alien, a barbarian without culture, without intelligence, without moral convictions.

  “Maybe if you cut your hair and dressed more like white people,” Jasmine said. “Maybe it would be easier for you.”

  “Why? We’re not ashamed of who we are. Besides, most of us don’t plan to stay here. We only came to make enough money to buy land in China. When we return to our villages we’ll still be Chinese. If we cut our hair, we wouldn’t be able to return at all.”

  “What difference does your hair make?”

  “When the Manchus conquered China 200 years ago, they forced men to wear queues, like the long tails of horses. If you didn’t wear a queue you’d be put to death. But also, if we cut our hair we are dishonouring our ancestors. Every part of us comes from them.”

  Jasmine mulled this over. It had never occurred to her that she was a part of something bigger than herself. That so much of what had gone before had led to her.

  Later, they crept around the William Irving, peering into elegant lounges decorated with tapestries, carpeting and ornamental woodwork “Electric lights!” Keung exclaimed, his eyes huge with wonder.

  When the night grew cool, they found a sheltered spot near the stern to eat the rice cakes Dragon Maker had provided. A well-dressed Chinese man leaned against the railing, lost in thought. “I recognize him,” Keung whispered. “He’s a wealthy merchant in Victoria.”

  A short time later the man approached them. Keung offered his remaining rice cake, and was surprised by the depth of emotion that came over the merchant’s face.

  “I went to the dining room for dinner,” he said, “and sat with the other passengers. The steward ordered me to leave but I refused. For the whole dinner hour I sat there in silence, while the waiters ignored me. And you, who have nothing, offer me your rice cake. When you return to Victoria, come and see me. I am Lam Fu Choy.” He bowed and wandered off to his cabin.

  Except for the swish-swish of the paddle-wheel, the night was silent. Jasmine pulled out the quilt Dragon Maker had stuffed in her bag and snuggled underneath. The decking was hard, but no harder than the ground she’d camped out on. Soon she was drifting off, lulled by the gentle motion of the boat.

  Keung stared up at the night sky, confused. How could it be the same, so far from home? He could see the Silver River, and the bright stars of Cowherd and Weaving Maid. Here! On the other side of the world!

  And this girl! She had pointed to hills even farther west than Victoria. But how could she come from the west, if she was somehow connected to Bright Jade? “Where are you from?” he asked, bewildered.

  Jasmine stirred. “Huh? What?” She opened her eyes to find Keung leaning on his elbow, gazing down at her.

  “If you’re not a spirit, what are you? And who are you? How can you know Bright Jade when you’re not one of us? You’re a barbarian, in spite of your dark skin and eyes. Even though you speak our language, you’re still a barbarian.

  “Wait a minute,” Jasmine said. “First you wake me up, then you bombard me with questions.” She sat up, pulling the quilt tightly around her. “You think I know the answers? I’m just as confused as you are. I didn’t ask to come into your world. That doorway into Fan Tan Alley? It just happened. I never asked to have the dreams of Bright Jade. They just started, right after my mother died. And I never asked to see you!”She told him about the boy in her dream, how his eyes had locked into hers, how she had recognized him in the gambling den. “Stop staring at me like that! Can’t you see I’m not a spirit?” She took a coin from her shirt pocket and handed it to him. “See the date? This is from my time.”

  Keung studied the queen on one side, the bird on the other. “But this is over 100 years away. You must be a spirit.”

  Jasmine touched his hand. “Does this feel like a spirit?”

  “No,” he said. His face felt suddenly hot, and his heartbeat quickened unexpectedly.

  “Well then, now we can shake on it.”

  “Shake on it?”

  “It’s a saying we have. When two people agree on something, they shake on it. Like this.” She took his hand in hers and squeezed it firmly. “You can keep the coin, if you like. It’s worth a dollar. We call it a loony, ’cause the bird’s a loon.”

  “Loo—ny.” He repeated the English word and smiled, keeping hold of her hand. Then he said, “I’m sorry about your mother.”

  “Me too,” she said quietly.

  For a long time afterwards, she could still feel the warmth of his hand. And for the first time since her mother died, she felt less of a piece, and more of a whole.

  At dawn, the sternwheeler was still chugging up the Fraser. Fir, pine and spruce loomed on either side of the river. Willows and maples, their leaves tinged with gold, glowed amongst the evergreens. In deep ravines and places sheltered from the sun, patches of snow still remained. To Keung, the impenetrable forest and rugged mountains appeared cold and forbidding, a far cry from the warmth of South China.

  But to Jasmine, the canyon was electrifying. She clung to the rail, drinking it in. Waterfalls
roared down the mountainsides. Creeks flowing into the river were jammed with salmon, making their way to the spawning grounds. Here and there, settlers’ cabins appeared on the bank, dwarfed by the hills that towered thousands of feet above the water’s edge.

  Churning past the town of Hope, the sternwheeler reached Two Sisters, twin rocks where the river dashed and foamed with such ferocity Jasmine could not imagine any boat ever getting through. She felt the steamer tremble, tossed like a cork by the current, while its ponderous wheel continued to revolve under full steam. With a shriek of the whistle, it eventually forged ahead, leaving the river lashing itself into spray against the rocks.

  Carefully avoiding driftwood and snags, the William Irving puffed its way up the river, through rapids, eddies and whirlpools. Before long it was steaming around a sharp curve, making its final approach to Yale.

  From a distance, Yale looked like a sleepy little place, hemmed in by the mountains. But Jasmine’s first impression was quickly shattered. Neither she nor Keung was prepared for such a hustling town. The moment they disembarked they were greeted by a scene of such intensity, such colour, such noise, all they could do was stand and gawk.

  Crowds of men worked on the beach, handling railway freight and loading it into wagons. The main street fronting the river bustled with activity. People didn’t walk, they rushed— people speaking every language from Cantonese to Swedish; people of every shape, size, colour, and costume, from painted ladies dressed in the latest fashions to native Indians carrying freshly-speared salmon. Horses, mule teams and oxen kicked up billowing clouds of dust. Dogs ran everywhere.

  Front Street was lined with barber shops and blacksmith shops, hotels and general stores, restaurants specializing in fresh oysters and game. The Hudson’s Bay Company store advertised wines, liquors and cigars as well as dry goods and groceries. Shops selling books, fruit and candies jostled with a meat market, saddlery, watchmaker, even a French bakery. A fleet of freight wagons and stage coaches waited outside the stables of B.C. Express, and further down was the Steamboat Exchange. A little ways up the hill stood a church.