“I know, Captain.” The big Dutchman gave him a smile that was almost apologetic. “But I am a missionary.” He shrugged. “I shall hope for protection from…” He pointed up to Heaven.
They received this with silence.
“Godspeed, Reverend,” said Read after a pause. “We shall miss you.”
“I shall go across to the other vessel with my things tonight,” Van Buskirk concluded, “so as not to delay you in the morning.”
—
A quarter of an hour later, a leather satchel containing his few possessions over his shoulder and his two big wicker baskets already lowered over the side, Van Buskirk was ready to depart. But before he left, he beckoned to Trader to join him and led him over to the opposite rail, where they would not be heard.
“Mr. Trader,” the big man spoke in a low, soft voice, “would you allow me to give you some advice?”
“Of course.”
“I have been out here many years. You are young, and you are not a bad man. I can see that. But I beg you to leave off this business. Return to your own country, or at least to India, where you may make an honest living. For if you continue in the opium trade, Mr. Trader, you will be in danger of losing your immortal soul.”
John did not reply.
“And there is something else you should know,” the older man continued. “When I was speaking to the mandarin this afternoon, he gave me news which confirmed other rumors I have been hearing.” He dropped his voice to a whisper. “There is trouble ahead. Big trouble.” He nodded slowly. “If you enter the opium trade now, I believe you may be ruined. So my advice to you as a man of business—even if you care nothing for your soul—is this: Take the money you have made and run.”
“Run?”
“Run for your life.”
◦
The following morning, a new thing happened to Mei-Ling. She’d been told to hang out the washing in the yard, and she was already halfway through. Second Son was watching her affectionately. He’d just acquired a new dog, and he was playing with the puppy while he sat on a bench under the orange tree in the middle of the yard.
The sun was shining. Behind the wall on the right, some bamboo fronds were swaying in the breeze. Over the tiled roof on the left, one could see the terraced rice fields on the hill. From the kitchen came the pleasant smell of flatbread, cooking over a wood fire.
But now Second Son saw his wife stagger, as if she was going to faint. He rose anxiously.
Mei-Ling herself hardly knew what had happened. The feeling of nausea was so sudden. Sending a chicken scuttling away, she staggered to the orange tree and put her hand on a branch to steady herself.
At this moment, her mother-in-law chose to come into the yard. “Bad girl!” she cried. “Why have you stopped?”
But there was nothing Mei-Ling could do. Before her husband could even support her, she doubled over and retched. The older woman came close, looking at her carefully.
And then, to Mei-Ling’s surprise, Mother spoke gently.
“Come.” The older woman pushed her son away and took Mei-Ling’s arm. “Quick, quick.” She helped Mei-Ling towards her room. “You sit down. Cool place.”
She heard her husband ask what was happening, and his mother tell him sharply to go to work. She sat down on a wooden chair, wondering if she was going to throw up, while her mother-in-law went into the kitchen, returning a few moments later with a cup of ginger tea.
“Drink a little now. Eat later.”
“I’m sorry,” Mei-Ling said. “I don’t know what happened.”
“You don’t know?” The older woman was surprised. “It’s morning sickness. Willow is lucky. She doesn’t seem to get it. I always did. Nothing wrong.” She smiled encouragingly. “You will have a fine son.”
The next day, Mei-Ling felt sick again. And the day after that. When she asked her mother-in-law how long she thought it would go on, the older woman was noncommittal. “Maybe not long,” she said.
In the meantime, however, Mei-Ling was enjoying what seemed to be a change in their relationship. This proof of the vigorous life stirring within her daughter-in-law and memories of her own suffering with morning sickness made her more kind. She would insist that Mei-Ling rest whenever she felt queasy and often sit and chat with her, in a way that she never had before. Naturally, the discussion often turned to the child she was going to have.
“He will be born in the Year of the Pig,” her mother-in-law pointed out. “And the element for this year is Earth. Earth Pig is not a bad year to be born.”
By the time she was three, Mei-Ling could recite the sequence of animals after whom each Chinese year would be named in turn—Dragon, Snake, Horse, Goat…twelve in all, so that an animal came around every dozen years. But that was not all. One had to add, for each animal, one of five elements attached to it: Wood, Fire, Earth, Metal, and Water. So the twelve animals, each with its attached element, made a complete cycle of sixty years.
And as every child knew, one’s character went with one’s birth sign. Some were good, some not so good.
Fire Horse was bad. Fire Horse men brought trouble on their families. Big trouble, sometimes. And if you were a girl born in a Fire Horse year, nobody would marry you. Parents tried not to have a child at all in a Fire Horse year.
Mei-Ling had a general idea of this complex knowledge, but her mother-in-law was an expert.
“The Earth sign can strengthen the Pig,” the older woman explained. “People say Pig means fat and lazy, but not always. Earth Pig will work hard. Take good care of his wife.”
“Won’t he eat a lot?” asked Mei-Ling.
“Yes, but he won’t care what he eats.” The older woman
