Crane (Page 10)

The ghost looked frustrated. It mumbled again, this time very slowly.

“Do … you … need … help?”

Hok’s eyes widened. This wasn’t a ghost. It was a boy! A guai lo. A ghost man. A white person. The boy was speaking Mandarin, but with a very thick accent. Hok could barely understand him. She nodded.

“I am going to pick you up,” the boy said slowly. “Don’t be afraid.”

Hok nodded again.

The boy lifted Hok off the muddy stream bank and crossed the bridge. Hok noticed that he was very strong. His broad shoulders stretched his gray peasant’s robe to its limits. She glanced down and saw that her dress and much of her body were streaked with mud and soaking wet, but the boy didn’t seem to mind.

The boy shifted Hok in his arms, cradling her, and her broken arm pressed against something rigid beneath his robe, across his chest. It felt like a metal pipe. She winced.

“Sorry,” the boy said, glancing at her arm. “Is it broken?”

“Yes,” Hok whispered in a weak voice.

“Don’t worry,” the boy said. “I know someone who can fix you up. She’s Chinese, but she won’t treat you any differently. She understands people like you and me because her husband is one of us … fair-skinned, I mean.”

Hok felt her heart begin to beat a little faster. She couldn’t help but think about her father, even though she remembered almost nothing about him.

“My name is Charles,” the boy said. “I come from a faraway place called Holland. I usually live on a ship, but recently I’ve been spending time helping my captain’s wife here on land. Have you ever seen the sea?”

Hok’s head began to spin. “I … I …”

Charles frowned. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t ask you to talk right now.”

Hok nodded weakly.

“Try and rest,” Charles said. “I’ll take care of you. I promise. Pale people like us need to stick together!” He smiled.

Hok smiled back and closed her eyes. Perhaps what Tsung had said about Dream Dust was true. She seemed to be able to see into this boy’s heart, and she saw he spoke the truth. Exhausted and comfortable in Charles’ arms, Hok drifted off to sleep.

Images of a tall white man with a thick brown beard and green eyes filled Hok’s head. It was her father. In her dream, he held one of her hands, and a tall, beautiful Chinese woman held the other. The woman had high cheekbones and tiny piercing eyes. Hok could never forget her mother’s face. Hok looked up to ask her mother a question, but her dream was cut short by a high-pitched squeal and a young girl’s demanding voice.

“What happened to her?”

Hok opened her eyes and found she was on a narrow trail, still in Charles’ arms. She was also nose to nose with a fair-skinned little girl who spoke perfect Mandarin. The girl’s eyes were Chinese, but her hair was long and brown.

“She looks like a drowned rat,” the little girl said to Charles. “And what happened to her hair? Does she want to look like a boy?”

“She does not look like a boy,” Charles replied.

The little girl scoffed. “Yes, she does, especially with those bruises. Where did you find her?”

“There is a bridge up the trail,” Charles said. “She was lying next to it.”

“You’re not thinking of having her stay with us, are you?” the girl asked. “Mother is going to be sooooo angry with you.”

Charles laughed. “She’s not my mother.”

The little girl stamped her foot. “You are going to be in so much trouble. We can’t afford another mouth to feed.”

“We can’t afford another mouth to feed,” Charles mocked. “What kind of six-year-old says things like that?”

“A smart one,” the little girl said. “And one that’s very mature for her age.” She stuck out her tongue and ran up the trail, around a bend.

Charles chuckled and looked at Hok. “That’s GongJee, which means Princess in Cantonese. It’s not her real name, but that’s what she demands everyone call her. She can be a pest sometimes, but you’ll get used to her. She’s very smart. She can speak Mandarin and Cantonese, and she even learned Dutch from listening to me talk with her father.”

Hok felt a chill trickle down her spine. The word Dutch sounded familiar.

“Look,” Charles said, pointing down the trail.

GongJee appeared around the bend, walking next to a tall Chinese woman who was pulling a small cart. The woman wore a snow-white turban on her head, pulled low across her brow so that it obscured her features. To Hok, it made no difference. She would never forget those high cheekbones and tiny piercing eyes.

Hok watched in disbelief as her mother, Bing, let go of the cart and began to jog up the trail with long, graceful strides. GongJee tried to keep pace at Bing’s side, a confused look on her face. “MaMa, what’s wrong?”