A Missionary Becomes the Convert - an excerpt
The following are selected excerpts from a short story I am currently writing. I started writing it in Beijing in July 2006 and have yet to finish it; indeed, I have no idea either how long it shall stretch to or when I will finish it.
The crumbled, smashed ruins of a suburban settlement outside Shanghai smoldered in the distance, growing fainter under the clouds of fog that had rolled in from the East China Sea, the smoke from the fires that now consumed it, and because the ship from which it was being viewed was quickly retreating southwards, back to its native port of Canton – full of looted bounty and being pursued by treaty port ships sent from an imperial outpost to defend British interests in China...
It was a windy day; the sails billowed and cracked above him, their bleached, patched surface pulsating with the changes of wind. His exhalations of smoke were quickly borne away. Kim leaned back on the railing. Around him, and strewn across the midsection of the boat amid coils of rope, was booty. Stolen livestock – pigs and chickens, mostly – poked and sniffed their way around bags of spices and numerous sacks of gold and silver. Among this mass, hunched over, with her knees in her chest, bound at the wrists and ankles, bruised and bloody, was the object of Kim’s attention.
Her name was Judith Shawl, a British missionary from outside London. She was 45 and had dark blonde hair streaked through with the silver of years. She was in the employ of the British Sisters of Charitable Mercy and had, for the past 17 years, been converting isolated pockets of non-Christians across greater East Asia...
Judith understood Kim’s act of salvation and was as grateful as one could be while tied up with pigs and chickens and having seen one’s host family raped and lit on fire. She watched Kim smoking and felt torn because he was clearly responsible both for saving her life and murdering half her village with a hearty and incredible gusto. She was in this splintered mindset when she realized Kim was watching her.
Kim tossed his cigarette into the crest of a wave and started walking toward Judith. He sat on a sack of cinnamon and looked her in the eyes.
Judith looked up at him through the smoke that wafted between them.
“Why did you kill them?” she asked in Cantonese.
“Why,” Kim replied, lighting another cigarette, “is the sky blue. Why do waves crash eternally on the shores of this land? Why is anything the way it is so?”
“Because of God. Because God has willed it.”
“Maybe your God wills me to kill, to slay men and women and children for money and pigs and spices.”
At this, Judith shuddered; Kim pulled back on his cigarette; a chicken walked between them pecking at scraps of grain.
“It is not so. God would never tell you to do that.”
“Why are you alive?”
“Because God has willed it.”
“Did God also will me to spare you?”
“He must have; otherwise, you would not have done it. You are cruel. I have seen you kill.”
Kim smiled softly, calmly. Judith sat shaking in anger, tears beginning to fall down her face – a face cracked prematurely under the strain of living in small villages, of helping elderly women sit cramped over bibles while grandchildren went unspoilt and front stoops went unswept.
She knew what he was getting at, but could not wipe the tears that fell embarrassingly down her stained cheek. Her hands were still bound.
“Then also, he must have willed me to kill everyone else in your place.”
The crumbled, smashed ruins of a suburban settlement outside Shanghai smoldered in the distance, growing fainter under the clouds of fog that had rolled in from the East China Sea, the smoke from the fires that now consumed it, and because the ship from which it was being viewed was quickly retreating southwards, back to its native port of Canton – full of looted bounty and being pursued by treaty port ships sent from an imperial outpost to defend British interests in China...
It was a windy day; the sails billowed and cracked above him, their bleached, patched surface pulsating with the changes of wind. His exhalations of smoke were quickly borne away. Kim leaned back on the railing. Around him, and strewn across the midsection of the boat amid coils of rope, was booty. Stolen livestock – pigs and chickens, mostly – poked and sniffed their way around bags of spices and numerous sacks of gold and silver. Among this mass, hunched over, with her knees in her chest, bound at the wrists and ankles, bruised and bloody, was the object of Kim’s attention.
Her name was Judith Shawl, a British missionary from outside London. She was 45 and had dark blonde hair streaked through with the silver of years. She was in the employ of the British Sisters of Charitable Mercy and had, for the past 17 years, been converting isolated pockets of non-Christians across greater East Asia...
Judith understood Kim’s act of salvation and was as grateful as one could be while tied up with pigs and chickens and having seen one’s host family raped and lit on fire. She watched Kim smoking and felt torn because he was clearly responsible both for saving her life and murdering half her village with a hearty and incredible gusto. She was in this splintered mindset when she realized Kim was watching her.
Kim tossed his cigarette into the crest of a wave and started walking toward Judith. He sat on a sack of cinnamon and looked her in the eyes.
Judith looked up at him through the smoke that wafted between them.
“Why did you kill them?” she asked in Cantonese.
“Why,” Kim replied, lighting another cigarette, “is the sky blue. Why do waves crash eternally on the shores of this land? Why is anything the way it is so?”
“Because of God. Because God has willed it.”
“Maybe your God wills me to kill, to slay men and women and children for money and pigs and spices.”
At this, Judith shuddered; Kim pulled back on his cigarette; a chicken walked between them pecking at scraps of grain.
“It is not so. God would never tell you to do that.”
“Why are you alive?”
“Because God has willed it.”
“Did God also will me to spare you?”
“He must have; otherwise, you would not have done it. You are cruel. I have seen you kill.”
Kim smiled softly, calmly. Judith sat shaking in anger, tears beginning to fall down her face – a face cracked prematurely under the strain of living in small villages, of helping elderly women sit cramped over bibles while grandchildren went unspoilt and front stoops went unswept.
She knew what he was getting at, but could not wipe the tears that fell embarrassingly down her stained cheek. Her hands were still bound.
“Then also, he must have willed me to kill everyone else in your place.”
posted by iain.e.marlow at 3:53 AM
3 Comments:
Ooo I want to read the rest!
me too!
Thanks for reading! Unfortunately, "the rest" doesn't really exist. I'll keep workin on it. Thanks for the encouragement.
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