River of Dust. Virginia Pye
Three
N ight fires gleamed in the distance, and smoke clung to the horizon, blurring the far-off mountains in a blanket of dark haze. The Reverend pressed on in the direction of the smoke, although the robbers might easily have slipped into one of the ravines or outcroppings that bordered the dirt road. In this maddening countryside there were too many possibilities, as many directions as travelers. It occurred to him that at this very moment the bandits may have been watching him from a rocky hilltop, laughing at his efforts. Or they might have turned away, no longer interested in the father who rode on and on forever in search of his son. For the Reverend understood that he would not stop his journey until Wesley was found.
The old horse was not meant for such swift travel, but the Reverend paid it little heed. He had not ridden bareback since he was a boy on the farm. It did not matter. Nothing mattered except going onward. Off to his right he saw a fire burning, and further ahead on the left a hamlet appeared— a cluster of buildings made of yellow brick, though in the dark they resembled nothing more than dark outlines. He had passed this cluster of derelict buildings before but assumed they were empty and no longer in use. Now from this ghost town came a dim light that the Reverend headed toward.
He let himself wonder what he would do if the bandits were holed up inside. He had no weapon. No sword or gun, not even a rock to hurl or a stick to swing. The Reverend bore nothing except his fury, height, and stature as a Man of God in a land of infidels. That would have to be enough. As he grew closer, he let the horse slow and then come to a stop. He swung down off the sweat-soaked back and kept hold of the reins. He could at least use the element of surprise to his advantage. He would come out of the black night to frighten the devils.
He passed through a broken wooden gate whose fence had long since fallen away. The moon came out from behind a cloud, and he saw the lay of the courtyard: a barn on one side, its roof staved in; a shed on the other, with no door or windowpanes and only darkness inside; and there, before him, an old inn with the windows boarded over. A light shone dimly through chinks in the brick near the back of the building.
The Reverend ducked behind the edge of the barn and tied his horse to a leaning post. He strode across the courtyard with his traveling coat billowing. A rough board with a knot of rope for a handle served as a door to the inn. On the wood were scrawled careless Chinese characters that the Reverend could not decipher. He couldn't be troubled about the meaning of the words, nor did he care to unravel the mysteries of this decrepit place. He merely wanted the Lord to lead him to his son. Faith, not knowledge, would guide him.
In his hand the knot of rope felt prickly and unwelcoming, but he twisted it and pushed open the door. He, who had been called a giant by even the friendliest of Chinese, now ducked below the lintel. He stepped over the threshold, placed both boots firmly on the sunken dirt floor, and rose up to his full height, impersonating Goliath as best as he could.
The Reverend thrust out his chest, pulled back his shoulders, and glared with as much menace as he could muster into a smoky, dimly lit room. His top wave of reddish hair grazed a low wooden beam. It took a moment for his eyes to adjust to the smoke. His lungs, which were never strong even in the best of settings, began to constrict in his chest. He hoped he would not cough and spoil the full effect of his pose, for he intended to appear not altogether human but rather a creature from an Amazon tribe, more native than the natives themselves.
An old, gnarled man wrapped in a heavy woolen cape and high fur boots stepped forward from the shadows at the back of the unfurnished room. He was bent so low, the Reverend felt certain he had spent decades behind a plow, although the ropes and pouches he wore around his neck and waist suggested more the life of a nomad or trader.
Perhaps, the Reverend thought, he was the grandfather of the bandits. The Reverend took a step forward, and the man cowered, suggesting he had none of the swagger of the men who had stolen his son. No doubt this fellow was instead the patriarch of a sorry, lost clan that still tried to hold on in this forgotten corner of the western plains.
The man did not speak but looked up at the Reverend with bright and nervous eyes. They regarded one another like animals of different species, although, the Reverend considered, at least animals had an instinct that told them who was predator and who was prey. He wished he had paused to wipe the infernal desert dust from his spectacles before entering, for now the dense clouds billowing from the back of the dark room further narrowed his vision. He was seeing the old man as if through the wrong end of a smudged spyglass.
"Grandfather," the Reverend began in as deep and sonorous a voice as he could muster, "I am here to find my son. He has been stolen, I believe, by the likes of you!"
The older man flinched at his words and seemed to be trembling, but that did not stop him from daring to step forward. He inched closer, reached out a palsied finger, and poked the Reverend none too delicately in the chest. When his touch reached firmness, the man staggered back and let out a frightened yelp.
"Yes, old fellow, I am real, and my mission is most urgent."
The grandfather nodded his head repeatedly in an attempt at understanding.
The Reverend boomed, "Have you, or your family, seen a small boy taken by robbers this very night?"
The old man flinched and sank deeper into his dark cape, clearly still frightened, but finally answered, "No. No boy here."
Although the man did not seem threatening, the Reverend knew to keep a close eye on him. In the seven years since he had come to Shansi Province, he had dealt with all manner of Chinese: the fine and upstanding as well as the tricksters who were more desperate than dangerous. He had also glimpsed the criminal element. Twice, he had come upon a beheading in a market square. Each time, it had become immediately apparent to him that the prisoner and the warlord who had orchestrated the punishment were equally evil barbarians. But the Reverend could not be bothered with such distinctions now. If he was in danger, so be it. His own safety was not what mattered. The boy was all.
The Reverend strode deeper into the room, and as he did so, he heard laughter coming from the dark. Could that be a woman's voice? A girl's? Or, his heart quickened, perhaps it was the high, angelic sound of his son.
"Your family, in the back." The Reverend gestured toward the darkened door. "Have they seen something in the past hours?"
The grandfather did not answer but turned and beckoned with the same palsied finger. On his face appeared an unexpected grin. The Reverend heard the laughter again. This time he was certain it belonged to a woman, or perhaps several women. His son's voice was not so cloying or crass. But still, the Reverend ventured further into the place. He followed the outline of the bent man in the wooly cape, more like the back of an animal than any human outline. The Reverend intended to interrogate each and every person he encountered back there. He would gather clues, then leave quickly and press on into the night.
The old man bowed his head humbly and held open the inner door for the Reverend, as if honored to offer tea in a formal parlor. The Reverend ducked low again, and when he lifted his head, he saw the terrible source of the smoke. All manner of miscreants lay about on low mats, puffing on pipes that emitted an awful stench. The Reverend squinted into the smoky den and covered his nose with his hand. An acrid scent seeped into him. This foul place seemed uninhabitable, as if he had entered an underwater world where he was the sole oxygen loving mammal. He took off his glasses and was about to clean them on his handkerchief when he realized he no longer had it. The bandits had taken it, too. The Reverend chided himself for even a moment's lapse in pursuit of his mission.
"I wish to know if anyone here has seen my boy?" he shouted.
Quiet fell over the room. Even the most delinquent of men sprawled on mats turned their heads toward the Reverend. Several girls in flowery silk robes crowded together and whispered at the sight of him.
The grandfather held up his hand and said something in a rapid dialect that the Reverend could not catch. The ancient fellow clapped his hands and waved them in the air as if conducting a silent concert, and then his message was over. The room buzzed again as the fallen all around him were apparently appeased by whatever had been conveyed. They no longer concerned