He was oblivious of passersby, of the soldiers at the gate of the fort, of the song of the church bells. Of birds calling or the gentle wind or the healing sun. Or of time.
Later he tried to decide what to do, but his mind wouldn’t function.
“Get hold of yoursel’,” he said aloud.
He walked down the hill to the bishop’s residence but the bishop was not in. He went to the cathedral and asked for him. A monk told him to wait in the cloistered garden.
Struan sat on a shaded bench and listened to the fountains bubbling. The flowers seemed more brilliant than ever to him, their perfume more exquisite. The beating of his heart and the strength of his limbs and even the constant ache of his ankle—these were not a dream but reality.
Oh God, thank you for life.
The bishop was regarding him from the cloistered walk.
“Oh, hello, Your Grace,” Struan said, exquisitely refreshed. “I came to thank you.”
The bishop pursed his thin lips. “What were you seeing, senhor?”
“I dinna ken,” Struan replied. “I was just looking at the garden. Enjoying it. Enjoying life. I dinna ken exactly.”
“I believe you were very close to God, senhor. You may not think so, but I know you were.”
Struan shook his head. “Nay, Your Grace. Just happy on a glorious day in a lovely garden. That’s all.”
But Falarian Guineppa’s mien did not change. His lean fingers touched his crucifix. “I was watching you for a long time. I could feel that you were close.
You! Surely that’s wrong.” He sighed. “Yet how can we poor sinners know the ways of God? I envy you, senhor. You wished to see me?”
“Aye, your Grace. This cinchona cured the fever.”
“Deo gratias! But that is wonderful! How marvelous are the ways of God!”
“I’m going to charter a vessel immediately for Peru, with orders to load cinchona,” Struan said. “With your permission I’d like to send Father Sebastian, to find out how they harvest the bark, where it comes from, how they treat their malaria—everything. We share the cargo and the knowledge equally when he returns. I’d like him, under your authority, to write a medical paper immediately and send it to the
Lancet in England—and to the
Times—about your successful treatment of malaria with cinchona.”
“Such an official medical treatise would have to be sent through official Vatican channels. But I will order him to do so. As to sending
him—that I will have to consider. However, I shall send someone with the vessel. When will it leave?”
“Three days.”
“Very well. We will share the knowledge and cargo equally. That is very generous.”
“We did na fix a price for the cure. She’s cured. So now will you please tell me the price?”
“Nothing, senhor.”
“I dinna understand.”
“There is no price on a handful of the cinchona that saved the life of one girl.”
“Of course there’s a price, I said whatever you wanted! I’m ready to pay. Twenty thousand taels were offered in Hong Kong. I’ll send you a sight draft.”
“No, senhor,” the tall priest replied patiently. “If you do I will only tear it up. I want no payment for the bark.”
“I’ll endow a Catholic church on Hong Kong,” Struan said. “A monastery if you wish. Dinna play with me, Your Grace. A trade is a trade. Name your price.”
“You owe me nothing, senhor. You owe the Church nothing. But you owe God very much.” He raised his hand and made the sign of the cross.
“In nomine Patris, et Filii, et Spirit us Sancti,” he said quietly, and left.
CHAPTER FORTY
May-may found herself awakening, Struan’s arms supporting her, and the cup at her lips. She vaguely heard Struan talking quietly to Father Sebastian, but she did not make the effort to understand the English words. Obediently she swallowed the cinchona and let herself slide back into semiconsciousness.
She heard the monk leave and felt the alien presence gone, and this pleased her. She felt Struan lift her again and she swallowed the second cup, the foulness of the taste still nauseating her.
Through the comfortable mist she heard Struan sit in the bamboo chair, and soon came his heavy, regular breathing and she knew that he was asleep. This made her feel very safe.
The sounds of the amahs chattering in the kitchen, and Ah Sam’s brittle, caustic humor, and the perfume of Yin-hsi were so enjoyable that May-may would not let sleep embrace her wholly.
She lay quiet and gathered strength by the minute. And she knew that she would live.
I will burn incense to the gods for my joss. Perhaps a candle to the longskirt god. After all, the monk brought the bark, didn’t he?—however foul it tastes. Perhaps I should become a longskirt Christian. That would give the monk great face. But my Tai-Pan wouldn’t approve of that. Even so, I might as well. For if there’s no longskirt God, no harm is done, and if there is—then I will have been very clever. I wonder if the barbarian God is like our Chinese gods. Who, if you think about it, are very stupid. But not really. They’re like human beings with all our weaknesses and strengths. That’s so much more sensible than pretending, as the barbarians do, that their God is perfect and sees all and hears all and judges all and punishes all.
I’m glad I’m not one of them.
She heard the sibilance of Yin-hsi’s clothes and breathed her perfumed presence. She opened her eyes.
“You look better, Supreme Lady,” Yin-hsi whispered, kneeling close to her. “Look, I’ve brought you some flowers.”
The tiny bouquet was very pretty. May-may nodded weakly, but felt her strength coursing. Struan was sprawled in the reclining chair, heavily asleep, his face young in repose, dark shadows under his eyes and the raw red of a weal on his chin.
“Father’s been there for an hour or more,” Yin-hsi said. She was wearing pale blue silk trousers and a knee-length double-breasted silk tunic of ocean green, and there were flowers in her hair.
May-may smiled and moved her head and saw that it was dusk.
“How many days is it since this fever began, Sister?”
“It was last night. Father came with a longskirt monk. They brought the magic drink, don’t you remember? I sent that miserable slave Ah Sam to the joss house early this morning to give thanks to the gods. Why don’t you let me wash you? Let me arrange your hair. You’ll feel so much better.”
“Oh, yes, please, Sister,” May-may said. “I must look dreadful.”
“Yes, Supreme Lady, but that’s only because you almost died. Ten minutes and you’ll be as beautiful as you always are—I promise!”
“Be as quiet as a butterfly, Sister,” May-may said. “Don’t wake Father, whatever you do, and tell those turtledung slaves if Father wakes before I’m presentable you’ll personally—on my orders—put the thumbscrews on them.”
Yin-hsi delightedly shuffled away. A vast silence fell on the house.
Yin-hsi and Ah Sam tiptoed back into the room and bathed May-may with perfumed water and brought sun-fresh trousers of finest crimson shantung and a crimson tunic, and helped her to dress. They bathed her feet and changed her bandages, then propped her while she brushed her teeth and rinsed her mouth out with baby urine. Finally, May-may chewed fragrant tea leaves and felt greatly purified.