one hundred and one hundred and two days since he left home. The ship had no sooner put to sea than he grew seasick. He lay prone on the cabin floor, feeling as weak as a soft-shelled crab and unable to stir. Then he was struck down with malaria which burned and chilled him by turns, and he lay comatose for days. None of the passengers reckoned he would live. Red Hair even dressed him in his new clothes to âsend him on his way.â The rule on ship was that anyone who died on board had to be buried at sea. But against all odds, he pulled through. After he woke, he asked how many days he had been asleep; some said three days,some four and some five. The exact length of his passage to Gold Mountain would always be a matter of conjecture.
Before he went on shore, Ah-Fat donned the clean suit of clothes that Red Hair had dressed him in when he was so ill with malaria. His mother had got Fatty the tailor at the entrance to the village to make them for him before he left. The tailor had used homespun blue cloth with five or six layers of patches sewn into the wristbands and knees, all ready for when he needed them. Mrs. Mak was preparing clothes that he could wear for long time, right up to the day he came home. The patches were stiff and heavy, so that the clothes banged against him when he wore them, rather like a suit of armour. He cursed Fatty for wasting cloth and making the trouser legs so wide and long, but Red Hair patted him on the shoulder: âYouâve just been to the gates of hell and back, so donât blame the tailor.â It was only then that Ah-Fat realized how thin he had become.
The ship had been docked for hours, but still they could not disembark. A rumour circulated that they were waiting for someone. Eventually, three people turned up. They were dressed in white garments, with white gloves, and wore squares of white cloth over their mouths. The masks covered more than half of their faces. Only their eyes were visible, sunk deeply into their sockets. Ah-Fat had seen Christian missionaries with eyes like these men in his hometown so their appearance did not strike him as particularly strange.
The three men divided up the crowd on the deck into two rows and ordered them all to stand straight, side by side, with their hands palm up, face to face and eye to eye with the man opposite. Red Hair shot meaningful glance at Ah-Fat, which he knew meant that he must remember to say he was eighteen years old to anyone who asked him a question. But no one asked him any questions. Instead, the shortest of the three made straight for Ah-Fat and, opening a small leather bag, took out a variety of shiny bright metal objects. His eyes were of an intense grey-blue, like âgoose eggâ pebble on a stream bed worn smooth over time by the waters. Shorty gripped Ah-Fatâs ear and thrust a long, icy-cold implement into it. He twizzled it around a few times as if he was stirring up night soil, then took it out. It tickled and shivers ran through Ah-Fat. Then the man pulled his eyelids up and leaned in close to peer into his eyes. They were eye toeye, and Ah-Fat could see his irises glimmering blue like two will-oâ-thewisps. He finally let go but forgot to pull the lids down, and Ah-Fat had to force himself to blink a few times. They still prickled, as if a grain of sand had stuck inside, and the tears began to run.
Shorty pried open his mouth, and pressed down on the root of his tongue with a stick. Ah-Fat retched and his mouth flooded with brownish saliva. He spat it out, but his mouth still tasted foul.
The man pulled out a piece of cotton cloth and rubbed at the droplets of saliva which flecked his sleeve. Then he pulled off Ah-Fatâs jacket and pinched and tapped his chest and stomach. Ah-Fat had always been ticklish. When he was little and fought with Ah-Sin, his younger brother only had to get up close and puff a few breaths at him to reduce Ah-Fat to weak, helpless laughter. This time, of
Before he went on shore, Ah-Fat donned the clean suit of clothes that Red Hair had dressed him in when he was so ill with malaria. His mother had got Fatty the tailor at the entrance to the village to make them for him before he left. The tailor had used homespun blue cloth with five or six layers of patches sewn into the wristbands and knees, all ready for when he needed them. Mrs. Mak was preparing clothes that he could wear for long time, right up to the day he came home. The patches were stiff and heavy, so that the clothes banged against him when he wore them, rather like a suit of armour. He cursed Fatty for wasting cloth and making the trouser legs so wide and long, but Red Hair patted him on the shoulder: âYouâve just been to the gates of hell and back, so donât blame the tailor.â It was only then that Ah-Fat realized how thin he had become.
The ship had been docked for hours, but still they could not disembark. A rumour circulated that they were waiting for someone. Eventually, three people turned up. They were dressed in white garments, with white gloves, and wore squares of white cloth over their mouths. The masks covered more than half of their faces. Only their eyes were visible, sunk deeply into their sockets. Ah-Fat had seen Christian missionaries with eyes like these men in his hometown so their appearance did not strike him as particularly strange.
The three men divided up the crowd on the deck into two rows and ordered them all to stand straight, side by side, with their hands palm up, face to face and eye to eye with the man opposite. Red Hair shot meaningful glance at Ah-Fat, which he knew meant that he must remember to say he was eighteen years old to anyone who asked him a question. But no one asked him any questions. Instead, the shortest of the three made straight for Ah-Fat and, opening a small leather bag, took out a variety of shiny bright metal objects. His eyes were of an intense grey-blue, like âgoose eggâ pebble on a stream bed worn smooth over time by the waters. Shorty gripped Ah-Fatâs ear and thrust a long, icy-cold implement into it. He twizzled it around a few times as if he was stirring up night soil, then took it out. It tickled and shivers ran through Ah-Fat. Then the man pulled his eyelids up and leaned in close to peer into his eyes. They were eye toeye, and Ah-Fat could see his irises glimmering blue like two will-oâ-thewisps. He finally let go but forgot to pull the lids down, and Ah-Fat had to force himself to blink a few times. They still prickled, as if a grain of sand had stuck inside, and the tears began to run.
Shorty pried open his mouth, and pressed down on the root of his tongue with a stick. Ah-Fat retched and his mouth flooded with brownish saliva. He spat it out, but his mouth still tasted foul.
The man pulled out a piece of cotton cloth and rubbed at the droplets of saliva which flecked his sleeve. Then he pulled off Ah-Fatâs jacket and pinched and tapped his chest and stomach. Ah-Fat had always been ticklish. When he was little and fought with Ah-Sin, his younger brother only had to get up close and puff a few breaths at him to reduce Ah-Fat to weak, helpless laughter. This time, of
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