A Superior Man by Paul Yee

wail or experts to conduct a funeral. This was the second year of the railway, yet no one had rules for dealing with the killing airs.
    Crew Boss and Bookman pestered High Hat, back and forth in English and Chinese. Crew Boss relied on Bookman, a China man handy with languages. He in turn begged help from High Hat, Elder of the brotherhood. Pig Boy was a member, and High Hat spoke for all the crew, even though only a third were brothers.
    I could hardly hold my glee; the brothers were going to lose face. They had long taunted us non-members as failures at saving money.
    â€œLook at us, we pool cash to buy candles and laundry soap.”
    â€œFollow us, we go to town together to get a discount from the barber.”
    â€œWe each take a turn to wash the group’s laundry so that the others can rest.”
    We non-brothers awoke late on rest days and each man scrubbed his own clothes, if at all. Those giddy housewives wanted to turn copper into gold, so like the women fussing at home, they should have known all about killing airs.
    There, villagers shooed children and livestock away from the tainted house. They slammed doors shut while someone raced to get coffin, corpse handlers, and funeral master. They hung a big lantern at the village entrance and lit it at night, telling strangers to stay away. The dark side of death had to be addressed by rules, and quickly too.
    Could that be done here? Key to the rituals was the dead man’s kinsfolk, but they were far away. Family was vital; those people couldn’t be replaced by cheerful men who went around calling each other “brother.” Dubbing dog meat “mutton” didn’t improve its taste.
    The brotherhood had formed as soon as we were shoved into gangs. That day, boatloads of coolies reached Yale. Sweaty redbeardsunloaded crates from scows and steamers. Cows clattered down a gangplank so sodden that they squealed and slid into the water. Horses reared up, shaking shaggy manes, as handlers tugged at them. My crew got its marching orders, but men rushed off to bid farewell to fellow travellers and visit Chinese stores and Native vendors. The contract promised meals, but no one trusted the document. When Bookman found us, only the brotherhood men were there, all from around the river port of Sim Hoi. It took Bookman an angry hour to round up the stragglers, after which we marched for half a day under a hot sun before being allowed to sit and rest.
    Each morning the brothers were first to want to trek into the forest. Extra sleep didn’t concern them. They shouldered axes and saws and toted cloth-wrapped bowls of food. They obeyed all orders, no matter how stupid. In return, Bookman gave them the posts of Head Cook and Second Cook. The brothers got not only better food but also hot water for soaking their feet. When we complained, Head Cook claimed the brotherhood was paying for the heated water. I sided with the losers who had touted Old Skinny for cook. We had pitied his weakness for opium.
    At last Crew Boss stomped away from the corpse, leaving behind the two Chinese headmen. Anxious workers squatted on the rank, soggy floor of the clearing. A knot slid up and down High Hat’s scrawny throat.
    â€œWe all know that such matters must follow the proper order. If not, our friend and brother will not pass smoothly on his way. With what little we have here, we must do our best to soothe and settle him. After all, everyone wants our friend to watch over and protect us while we are far from home.”
    The dark and clammy yin side of the forest smothered us. Our eyes were swarmed by clouds of mosquitoes that no smoky fire could evict. Prickly bushes clawed at our legs while soft mud swallowed our boots. We yearned for a bright, solid worksite open to the healing wind and sun. At the nearby lake, we held our breath and tiptoed around lean-tos made from tree-fibre mats. Woven cords hung from tent pole to tent pole. We never saw any Native people.