Bright Moon Ridge: A Search in China

By Linus Treefoot

AWARD WINNER: New Apple Summer e-book Awards 2017 ~~ Runner-up in the Historical Fiction category.

Caught! Trying to escape from repressive China, Mei only wanted to re-join her lover and newborn baby. Bartooth in desperation returned to China to try to find her, but now, 20 years later, no one has heard from them. Johnny, their son, his curiosity having been inflamed, resolves to go to China to search for his long-vanished parents.

• Language: English
• Publisher: BookBaby
• Release date: Nov 1, 2016
• ISBN: 9781543937657

Book preview

story.

Bright Moon Ridge:

A search in China

Book 1

Bartooth

Bright Moon Ridge: A search in China

Book 1

PROLOGUE

When I opened the door to Heron, what first occurred to me was – could this guy be my father?

What I saw was a balding cherub, a big grin in the middle of his beard, and twinkling blue eyes. He didn’t look at all like photos of my father; I don’t know why I made the connection, except they would have been about the same age.

But there was a connection.

I had rarely spent more than a moment thinking about my father since I was a child. More than once I’d said to my Aunt Belle, I don’t think about him. But she’d just give me that sarcastic look of hers – she didn’t believe that I could ignore my parentage.

But really I never used to think about him – or my mother. Before Heron came.

That morning was an exception, a bizarre exception. I was reading in the living room, and something I read brought an image of my father to mind – an image like the photo on the worn mantelpiece – him sprawling on a bench with his legs stretched out, dressed in dirty white pants and a drooping sweater, his laughing, bearded face framed by a floppy hat and an armload of celery stalks.

I looked up to see Aunt Belle staring at me. How does she know what I am thinking? She smiled at me, then glanced above my head to the photograph of my father behind me. Then she looked at me again, and smiled knowingly.

The weird part is — just at that moment we heard Heron’s knock.

Are you Johnny Bartooth? he asked. I’m Heron. Is Belle at home?

I’d heard the name, but I couldn’t remember who Heron was.

My Aunt Belle, who has looked after me as my mother for my whole life, came to see who had come to the door. She knew who Heron was. Her face was beaming pleasure when she saw him. Heron! she shouted, and they flung themselves together in a prolonged hug.

He whirled her around, on the doorstep in the chilly wind, then they studied each other’s faces – with intense interest.

You haven’t changed, he said. Is it possible that you are even more beautiful than when I last set eyes on you 28 years ago?

Is it possible that you are even more silver-tongued than when I last heard you speak 28 years ago? Belle was chirpier than I’d seen her in a long time.

When Heron and Belle finally let go of each other, he stepped into our dark living room, turned to me and said, I’ve come here, all the way from the great sovereign nation of Australia, for two reasons – to visit your lovely Aunt again, and to present you with this. He fumbled inside a tattered green backpack, and drew out a cardboard binder. The hand-written title read OutRAGEous – a Journal -- Bartooth. The cover was gray. One of its corners had been burned away.

How long have you had that backpack, Heron? Belle’s eyes were still shining. For a woman her age, she did look exceptionally youthful. She had long, straight brown hair, with just a few gray strands starting to appear. She was relatively thin. A few wrinkles were beginning to line her face.

I think I got it before I went to New Zealand. You must have seen it before.

Heron hadn’t handed the Journal to me yet.

Your Dad wrote this, Johnny. But before I give this to you, I just want to say a few things about him, and tell a few stories. Heron seemed to be reciting a speech he had practised. I don’t know how much your Aunt has divulged to you about Bartooth, but…

Not a lot really, Belle interjected.

But I want you to know, before you read one word of this extraordinary document, that Bartooth was a special person, one of a kind.

Okay. Fine with me. Talk away. I’d like to hear whatever you have to tell about him. Or my mother. He still hadn’t handed me the Journal. I felt like taking it from him.

I know very little about her – only what’s written in here. Belle would know more than me. Heron turned and, to my annoyance, put the Journal back into his knapsack. He said, But first, could I have a wash and some tucker? It’s been a long trip from my house to your house. We agreed to postpone his story telling until after Heron had had a shower and we’d finished our lunch.

Heron was the link.

For several years he had been my father’s closest friend and frequent companion, through many days and all sorts of escapades. So he brought with him dozens of stories and memories. But, more than that, Heron brought a priceless gift for me: that gray-covered journal, which my father wrote – sometimes in long detail – between 1966-1979.

I never met my father. I mean, I was too little to remember him. He left me with Belle, his sister, when I was less than one, and he went back to China to find my mother. That’s what he told everyone.

No one ever heard from him again. No one we know, anyway. Not even Heron.

I sometimes wonder why I’ve started to care about him. He’s long gone. He must be. He surely would have tried to make contact with his son during these past 19 years, if he were still above ground. My mother must be long dead too – buried on some mountain in Guangdong province, or her ashes mingled with its soil, and her atoms dispersed into water, air, rice, animals, people.

Why should I care about this person who is just a flicker in history? I owe him nothing. He didn’t influence my upbringing, my character, my values.

I never knew him.

Yet I have come to long to know him, to long to discover everything about him, and everything about my mother.

1

Later, after listening to a couple of Heron’s yarns about dem wild hippy years, I was finally given Bartooth’s Journal -- I suppose I should call him my dad; it’s hard to think of this mythical stranger as my father -- and I read it non-stop for a couple of hours. At first I was only interested in the part of the journal that had to do with circumstances of my birth, and why my father left me and never returned. So I looked near the end and I found an entry dated June 1978, and started there.

BARTOOTH’S JOURNAL June 1978 Kwang chow [Canton City, now written Guangzhou]

It’s been a while since I’ve written in here. Haven’t had the urge mostly. Nor the time. Right now I am in the hospital recovering from a concussion and knife wounds. So for once I have plenty of time. And I have the urge too. These last couple of weeks have been really incredible.

When Murray from the Language School told me he was going to China, I couldn’t wait to sign up. I hadn’t realized it was opened up to tourists yet. I’ve never been on a tour group before, but everyone says it’s the best way to travel in China. The agency gets the visa for you, books the trains, and provides an interpreter/ guide. I know enough Cantonese to survive when I was working in Hong Kong, but I’d never be able to cope on my own in China. Very few people know any English at all.

Since I’ve been in the hospital, my Cantonese has improved 500%. I think now I could travel on my own – in Kwantung [Guangdong] – if I could ever get out of here.

Going into the Kowloon train station, I thought – I’ve started new adventures before, like stepping on to the tarmac in New Zealand and stepping ashore in Hong Kong, but this is more like beginning a journey into another time, or to another planet. China is a different world: The great socialist experiment that I’ve been taught to fear and despise. The godless Slavery of Communism. I thought – I am going to be there.

If I have lived a life before this one, it must have been in China. Why else do I have such a compelling desire to experience it?

At the border we walked across that footbridge I’ve seen in movies. Over the river, and I was so excited – I’m really here! – was all I was thinking. Then I started taking in the images:

-- the guardhouse, and the calm, unarmed soldiers – the People’s Liberation Army;

-- inside the immense customs building, the big character posters hanging on some walls, red with white writing, the color very faded;

-- the huge paintings of Chairman Mao and Chairman Hua, side by side;

-- the long, long customs entry forms, stiff officials speaking polite English.

At customs I saw a kwai lou [foreigner] sitting against the wall. There was a long wait anyway, so I went over to talk to him. Another Aussie, like Murray. He is married to a citizen of the People’s Republic, and when they were going through customs together, the official asked her, What is your relationship to this man? She said, He is my husband. So they made her take some tests for V.D. She was in a clinic at that moment getting a blood test.

I smiled and said, Welcome to the People’s Republic of China!

He smiled back. Hsieh hsieh. [Thank you.]

Then, from the train window, more images:

-- long, narrow brick farm village houses

-- water buffaloes pulling plows through rice paddies

-- farm workers and children waving at the train

-- fishponds next to village houses

-- sugar cane fields filling a whole valley

On the edge of some sugar cane fields there were shelters made of lashed-together bamboo sticks covered by clear plastic sheets, with straw piled inside. I said to Murray, Those can’t be their houses, can they?

I dunno, he shrugged.

At the Kwang chow train station, we were met by our two guides, Mr. Wang and Miss Wong (Try to not get mixed up with those two names.) from the China International Travel Service. They both speak English reasonably well. Miss Wong is cute, but not exactly playful. Murray asked her if we could call her by her first name. She said, I prefer you to calling me ‘Miss Wong’.

So I asked her the next logical question – did she want to go to a bar with us when she finished work? She ignored the question for a long time, and then, when she saw we were still waiting for an answer, she said politely, I don’t want…. No, thank you.

I had expected that the itinerary was already fixed in concrete, but the guides said we could request a visit to wherever we wanted, and they would try to take us there. So Murray and I immediately looked at each other, and started thinking of something preposterous.

I went first. Could we see a struggle session, like where students shout at their teacher and beat her up?

Mr. Wang looked a bit stunned. Before he could answer, Murray took his turn. Could we go to a prison, and talk with some political prisoners? He quickly put a hand on Mr. Wang’s shoulder, laughed, and added, No, we’re just joking. Don’t worry…. We’re just joking, okay?

Mr. Wang smiled a tiny smile. Yes…. struggle sessions happened in the Ten Years, I mean the Culture Revolution, but not now days.

Miss Wong was not smiling at all. I decided to avoid political jokes.

Then they took our passports – for safety, they said. I found it very hard to part with mine, but you had to trust them. We had no choice anyway.

It was starting to turn dark and the bus which was supposed to meet us hadn’t turned up yet. Mr. Wang asked us all to leave our suitcases where they were, and come with them to have a drink. Some tour group members started squawking about that, but the two guides assured us that it was completely safe – no one would touch them. So we all did leave the bags there unattended – the old teacher from the Peak International School went quite reluctantly, glancing back over her shoulder several times. You wouldn’t do that in Hong Kong -- or even in New Zealand these days.

They were right. No one took any of the suitcases.

Finally, Miss Wong came in and announced that the bus was waiting for us. Getting to the bus through the plaza in front of the station was total chaos. It really seemed like we’d stepped into another world. Outside the train station it was dark and very hot. There were people milling around everywhere, plus cars, taxis, and pedicabs moving seemingly with no order or pattern. I was getting edgy.

On the way to the hotel, I was glued to the bus window. A lot of streets had no sidewalks. There were people everywhere walking in the street. Even in streets that have sidewalks, most people chose to walk in the street instead. The bus driver leaned on the horn almost all of the time. Again there were people and bicycles crowded everywhere, no streetlights, the damp heat, lots and lots of honking – it was all so different.

The next morning, when we looked out of the window of our hotel, we could see the river from our room. Our hotel was hot in the early morning, even with the windows open. Both of our beds were canopied with mosquito nets. The ceiling was high and there was a marble floor. There was no T.V., but there was a huge old radio, almost 3 feet high.

Our first visit that day was to a fish farm. The fishermen demonstrated how they catch their fish. About eight guys jumped into the water, and gathered in their nets.

They walked us over to look at a new rice-planting machine. A little guy (after he talked about the Four Modernizations – everyone must mention the 4 Mods at least once, when they talk to anyone about anything--) spoke about how much time and labor the machine was saving. They started it up, and it went about 10 feet, then conked out. It was truly the highlight of the day, in terms of embarrassment. It was also pretty goddam funny. But I felt sorry for the poor buggers who were trying to get the machine moving again. Fortunately, they didn’t make us stay there for very long to watch them squirm.

Everywhere we go, people gawk at us. I think most of them have never seen real living kwai lou before. Or maybe it’s because Murray and I are so much taller. If you smile at them, they almost always smile back.

Not everyone stares. Many people don’t notice us as we pass. Or pretend they don’t.

After lunch Wang and Wong took us to a university. Several of our group are teachers, so that was a logical choice.

At the university we were seated and greeted in a large room. A group of seven people offered tea and cigarettes, and one gave a welcome speech. The man explained that the universities are now operating as they had before the Cultural Revolution -- normally. He described Mao’s vision of education, which explained why, up until recently, if you’d visited a university here, you’d see farm work and factory work being done, but no classes.

We went to an English class that was in session. After observing for a while, we were asked by the teacher to sit next to a student and help him/ her with pronunciation. I sat next to a pretty girl who seemed very young. Her straight black hair was pulled back tightly into a ponytail. I asked her what job she was studying for. Without hesitation she proclaimed: I will do whatever best for China. My purpose is spread World Revolution.

Near the entrance to the university there were the remains of some kind of monument that had been destroyed. Only the jagged bases of a few statues remained, arranged in a semicircle.

Murray commented to me, The handiwork of the Red Guards, no doubt.

Miss Wong overheard him, and announced to the group, This memorial now is being repaired.

Riiiiiight!

Some group members tried to take photos of PLA soldiers on guard at the university gate, but they wouldn’t let us. Photographing everything else was okay, though.

The best show in town is from the window of the bus. There are millions of bicycles, at times 8-10 across on both sides of the street. You also see people pulling freight carts by hand, pedicabs, and 3-wheeled bicycle carts with trays, carrying all kinds of different freight, including one guy with an entire lounge suite: 2 sofas and 2 armchairs.

You can still see Mao badges on many shirts. You can see faded big-character posters on walls and buildings. There are so many pretty girls, but they usually are dressed in drab blue shirts and trousers. Sometimes you see a daring young woman in a blouse and skirt instead.

BARTOOTH’S JOURNAL June 1978 Kwang chow

That Friday evening was the start of it all.

We all went to a restaurant with Wong and Wang and a few other Chinese people to celebrate our arrival in China. It was a noisy, brightly lit place, with dozens of large round tables inside. There were many toasts. They had bought a couple bottles of Mao-tai.

At one point I noticed a woman looking at me intently. She was Chinese, straight black hair to her shoulders, very pretty. I don’t often have a beautiful lady staring at me. Several times when I looked across the room, there were her lovely eyes. Once I smiled at her. She turned away then, and listened to the conversation at her table. Her face looked so thin, I thought she must be hungry.

When her group left the restaurant, I watched her walk out the door. Murray noticed me, and saw where I was staring. Friend of yours? he asked.

I wish!

Later they took us to an acrobatics show. A girl balanced on a pole two guys held between their shoulders. Behind her, about 3 metres away, two other guys held a pole between their shoulders. The girl did a back flip and landed, standing up, on the second pole. Damn good trick!

At the end of the show all the performers came out on stage and sang a patriotic song together. The whole audience stood up and joined in.

Back at the hotel, I didn’t feel even a little sleepy. I asked Murray if he wanted to go out again for a walk, but he didn’t. Besides, I don’t think they’ll let you. I wasn’t about to let bureaucratic regulations stop me. I went out through the main lobby and tried to walk down the street. Within a minute, Mr. Wang was at my elbow. He said he would accompany me – Where did I want to go? I changed my mind. I didn’t want another tour guide-led excursion. I wanted to have a look around by myself.

So I went up to my floor, then down a back staircase and out the back door. I went to a park near the hotel. Most of the people were couples; some were holding hands, or had their arms around each other. I could discern one couple lying down among some bushes.

I crossed the street away from the park and started to walk into a small street. Once I left the park, the streets were deserted, and there were no street lights. I could see the shadowy shapes of about five young guys walking towards me. When they came closer, I saw that one had a knife in his hand. I turned around. Three other guys had followed me out of the park. I started to run, but I was tripped up and fell. They tried to hold my arms and legs, and I tried to kick free. I saw the guy with the knife stick it into me. That’s the last thing I remember.

I didn’t see the baseball bat coming.

When I woke up, I was in a hospital bed.

First thing I remember was a noticeable pain. It was like a muscleman-elf was inside my head, pounding a sledgehammer into my brain. However, it was only an intermittent pain – it occurred only about once every second. Also the left side of my stomach was burning like charcoal on a barbeque. Other than that, I felt great. Except my vision was blurry, and I felt like I was going to die any moment.

There was a woman standing next to the bed. When I looked at her, she said in English, Welcome back to your life, Mr. Bartooth.

I focused on her face. A beautiful, smiling Chinese lady. She was wearing a white coat. She seemed familiar. I closed my eyes and forced myself to remember. That hurt.

An image came to mind: lovely eyes staring at me. I looked at her again. Mind-blowing! Was I the luckiest assault victim in Kwang chow, or what?

The restaurant? Did I see you in the restaurant?

Yes, she smiled and laughed. You remember me. That is nice…. You must rest…

Are you a nurse? or…

I am a doctor. I am Huang Ching Mei. She looked directly into me, with total self-assurance.

Dr. Huang. You are very pretty. Neih hou leng. You are the most beautiful doctor I’ve seen in…What day is it?

It is Monday today. You been in this hospital almost three days. Your friends left Kwang chow. But you cannot go with them. You must rest and become better.

I had to close my eyes sometimes, to try to lessen the pain.

Dr. Huang went on, They asked me to help you, because I know a little English,…

A lot of English, I think. How did you learn…?

I was born in San Francisco,…

Me too! I was really pleased to have a connection with her.

Really? We can talk later. Now you must rest.

I asked her for some painkillers. Then I blacked out.

When I woke up again, it was the middle of the night and very quiet. I immediately remembered the pretty doctor, and wanted to see her again.

I called out, Hello! Wai! Hello! Wai!

A girl dressed in white ran in.

I said, Doctor Huang. Where…is…Doctor…Huang? She didn’t understand, so I tried, Huang hai bindouh a? [Where is Huang?]

She ran off in a hurry.

In a few minutes Dr. Huang hurried into my room. Are you okay? Do you have problem?

Just seeing her made me forget about the pain. Nothing special. Just…you said we could talk later. Do you have time to talk now?

She smiled a little. Oh…. I am busy now. I will come back soon…. Okay?…You must rest.

I’m resting. I’ve been resting for days.

Okay. She laughed. Ten minutes.

Twelve minutes later she returned. We talked. When I could stay conscious, and when I could complete a whole sentence without forgetting what I wanted to say, I asked her dozens of questions about her past. I got to like her more and more by the minute. She has a wonderful laugh, and a