Jane Orcutt - All the Tea in China

His words had the obvious desired effect of piquing my curiosity. “You speak of heroes? Women?”

“Yes, not only men. Often they were wanderers who were skilled in combat but only fought when necessary,” he said.

“To right wrongs?”

“Yes.”

“They sound much like knights of British myth. Like King Arthur and his knights of the round table.”

“It is not quite the same,” he said. “These heroes, called hup, were not nobility. They could be, of course, but could also come from a humbler background. They did not have quests, either, but were often wanderers.”

“So they roamed the countryside with no purpose?”

“Their goal was adventure, and they could be hired, but they did not seek to line their pockets so much as to uphold honor and justice. Their word could not be violated.”

That prevents you from numbering yourself among them, Phineas Snowe! I do not know why he spoke of such warriors when he was so far from them himself. However, listening to his description took my mind off the storm outside, and indeed, I believed I felt myself warming. “Tell me more,” I said. “Do you know any actual stories, or is your purpose merely to inform?”

“I have heard a mo hup tale or two. Mo means having to do with martial arts, the military, or war, and hup is the hero of the story. It also means chivalry.”

“Like King Arthur and his knights.”

Snowe sighed. “As I said, it is not quite the same, Isabella.”

If there was anything I preferred to fencing, it was a well-told story. Storm and danger receded, and I settled into my hammock. “Then spin a tale and let me judge for myself.”

Spin he did, his words holding me spellbound. He told the tale of Wo-Ping, a hup who appeared in a village called Hu-King one day with little more than his sword. In exchange for food and a place to sleep, he worked for a farmer near the village. The next day another hup arrived, a woman, Mei. The villagers suspected her motives, and though she was lovely, she had a heart as hard as the soil after a rain. Unfortunately for the villagers and Wo-Ping, they did not know about the sword she kept hidden in the haystack nor how wrong they would be about the condition of her heart.

I did not know if Phineas merely recounted a story he had heard before or if he wove the tale even as he spoke it, but something happened to me that night as he sought to calm my fears of the storm. I no longer heard the voice of Phineas Snowe, but the narrator of a great tale. He drew me into the land and the characters with their struggle for yi, or righteousness. I was transfixed by the notion of a woman who hungered and thirsted for such.

Just as he reached a crucial point in the story, he suddenly stopped speaking. I was all but poised at the edge of my hammock, waiting for him to continue.

“We are past the storm,” he said.

“Storm? There is no storm in Hu-King. Go on.”

“I spoke of the Dignity, Isabella.”

I blinked. I no longer saw the village or the woman with the sword but the canvas hanging between my hammock and Snowe’s. I rolled over to face the porthole and saw that the sun was shining once again. We had survived.

“Are you warmer now?” he said gently.

“Yes, thank you.” I spied my discarded clothing on the floor. “But I am afraid I have nothing to wear. I cannot be seen in my nightgown, after all.”

I heard him rise from his hammock, then the rustle of clothing. “Perhaps Julia Whipple has something else that you may borrow. In the meantime, perhaps you should rest. I do not want you to catch a chill. I will bring you some tea.”

“I do not suppose you have green to share?” I said hopefully, like a child. Indeed, I felt quite under his spell at the moment.

“I have some leaves in my trunk,” he said. “After I have seen Julia, I will bring you some.”

The door closed after him. Surely when he returned I would see what else was in the mysterious trunk besides, apparently, tea. I huddled under my two blankets, not from the cold now, but from the memory of the story. I felt an odd sort of kinship with the man who had calmed my fears and fired my intrigue. Had it truly been Phineas Snowe who thrilled my imagination by taking me to a foreign land? I could not wait for Mei to recover the sword from hiding and use it to show Wo-Ping that she was not the heartless woman he thought her. Phineas had not even described what type of swords Mei and Wo-Ping possessed, and I longed to hear their descriptions. And what of the two hup? Would Mei be forced to fight Wo-Ping? What would be her initial approach? Surely she would be calm and allow Wo-Ping to exhaust himself by attacking with his sword first so that she could study his weaknesses and take full advantage. Or would he do the same with her?

I did not realize that I spent hours picturing the swordplay in my mind. At last I realized from the angle of the sun through the porthole that it had been quite a long time since Snowe had left the room. I could not imagine what had detained him.

Then I remembered that he had gone to Miss Whipple. Julia, he had called her. What else-who else-could have kept him for such a great length of time? My spirits sank, my enthusiasm dampened as greatly as the dress lying on the cabin floor. How could he weave a magical tale, drawing me into a world of his making, then abandon me for Julia Whipple?

When I heard the door finally open, I pretended sleep, even when on my wooden crate he laid a fresh dress and a cup of tea. Let it grow cold!

I felt betrayed. Indeed, Miss Whipple and Snowe seemed to have their heads together the rest of the day. They strolled the deck, laughing and conversing while the crew made busy repairing the damage the storm had wrought and mopping the deck. The sun shone brightly now, but it might as well have been pitch black and the ship storm-tossed for my mood. I did not understand why Snowe would seemingly abandon me for Miss Whipple’s company. It is true that I was not, in fact, his sister, but we had shared something during the storm through his story, something akin to closeness that we had never had. I was bewildered at his reactions, and my own, as well.

The dress Miss Whipple had loaned me was gray this time, a light cotton that made me think of a dove or a pigeon. Naturally I was grateful to have dry clothing, but I could not help but desire something a little more fashionable to wear. It was difficult to remind myself that missionaries should have an attitude like the lilies of the field, but I believe that even flowers dressed more fashionably than I.

I took several turns around the deck, keeping an eye on Miss Whipple and Phineas. Midshipman Calow was kind enough to inquire about my health after the storm, avowing that it was not nearly the worst he had seen in his young life at sea. Mr. Gilpin joined us and agreed. They were both gentlemanly enough to reserve criticism when they heard of my distress at the tossing nature of the ship during the worst of the storm.

“Mr. and Mrs. Akers were both violently ill,” Mr. Calow reported cheerfully. “They did not even manage to toss their dinners into a bucket. One of the seamen is cleaning up their cabin now.”

Mr. Gilpin gave him a silencing glance. “That is no fit talk for a lady, Mr. Calow.”

“Aye, sir. I’m sorry, sir. I beg your pardon, Miss Goodrich.”

I had rather enjoyed the strong image his words evoked regarding the Akers, but I suppressed a smile. “All is forgiven.”

“Mr. Calow, climb up and check the rigging, if you please,” Mr. Gilpin said.

“Aye, sir.” Mr. Calow saluted then scrambled up the ropes.

I smiled. “I admire his stamina. Is he doing well as a midshipman? He seems quite young.”

“It is a good age to begin,” Gilpin said. “I was about that old when I began my career.”