A Superior Man by Paul Yee Page A

Any coolie who was sent to the lake to fill our drinking pails pleaded for an escort, fearing water spirits and Native people, human or other-worldly.
    â€œFour men are needed,” High Hat said, “to break that tree and free our brother. Then they will carry him home to camp. There are no corpse handlers to hire here, so our brotherhood will pay for four helpers. The payment confirms the business nature of the handling, and will protect those men from any killing airs. They will dig a grave, wash the body, carry it to the site, and complete the burial. Who will help?”
    â€œShouldn’t the Company pay?” asked Little Touch.
    â€œThe agent said bodies would be sent home,” said Four Square, “so that family members would see that their men hadn’t been sold as piglets.”
    â€œWe can discuss that later.” High Hat lowered his voice. “Our brother should not hear us argue here.”
    No one volunteered. We didn’t have rock for brains. Pig Boy had just died. His soul hovered nearby. He could hardly be happy, cut from life so suddenly, having just ended a stomach-rolling ocean trip of thirty days. His family in China was waiting for money. This death wasn’t timely at all.
    The brothers shrank back from tending their own, yet were too proud to walk away. No man wanted a sullen corpse to suck away his yang , his vital essence, and leave him open to illness and death. What did those cheeky fellows say now about the need to help each other while far from home? How were they going to show the barbaric redbeards that China men always rose above hardships in refined and superior ways?
    The silence dragged on.
    â€œHigh Hat, we don’t see you raising your hand,” Four Square pointed out.
    â€œThe longer that tree sits on our friend,” he said, “the greater the danger to us.”
    â€œI wouldn’t touch that dirty thing even if you gave me a pound of gold,” said Salty-Wet.
    â€œHok and Poy,” said Shorty, “you two bastards should help. Atone for all the people you killed. Regain the honour you lost.”
    â€œI told you,” I said. “We never killed anyone.”
    â€œWho believes a bandit?”
    At a recent meal, I had joined some men chatting about Centipede Mountain and spoken too much about its hidden trails and shortcuts. Shorty, much smarter than I had thought, heard me and asked how I came to know those long hills. After all, wasn’t my village located far away?
    â€œHauled loads through the region,” I replied.
    â€œLiar! Bandits ruled Centipede Mountain,” said Shorty. “I know you. Your gang raided my village. We fought and killed one of you.”
    I stated Grandfather’s good name and demanded proof fromShorty, but he insisted that I knew far too much about the region.
    Damn my itchy mouth. I had only wanted to make new friends. Poy was tagged as my partner in crime.
    I appealed to the crewmen. “When there is no rice, children still must eat. Can anyone here swear to Heaven that no one in his family ever stole?”
    The brothers accused me of blackening everyone’s name. But we all knew from experience that bandit gangs never had trouble recruiting new members. Of course my co-workers had spent time among robber bands. We all came from wretched backgrounds; we all faced the lack and losses that Heaven cast upon us. Few people dared to be as self-righteous as Shorty.
    Each crewman knew war and hunger as surely as his own name. The Guest Wars forced my village to flee to the hills. Armed bands crisscrossed the counties, burning crops and seizing livestock, smashing docks and bridges. Walled villages were set ablaze as clouds of black smoke turned day into night. Grandmother and Mother huddled with us children, beseeching Heaven and the ancestors for help. Before this turmoil, the Red Scarf bandits had rebelled against the emperor and demanded food from everyone.
    â€œGuard your